


Daughter of the Sea

by Saeriellyn



Category: Chronicles of Prydain - Lloyd Alexander
Genre: AU, Alternate Mythology, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Feminist Themes, Gen, Good versus Evil, High Fantasy, Long, Matriarchy, Non Explicit, Novel, Politics, Prequel, Romance, Romantic Soulmates, Stand Alone, Unplanned Pregnancy, Welsh mythology - Freeform, chronicles of prydain, lunar biorhythms, no canon knowledge necessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 149,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25766488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeriellyn/pseuds/Saeriellyn
Summary: "A crown is more discomfort than adornment." ~DallbenAngharad of Llyr, heir to the throne, and her impossible choice between duty and love.Prequel to The Chronicles of Prydain, full-length novel based on the short story The True Enchanter. Standalone novel/no canon knowledge necessary to enjoy this fic, though it will make it more meaningful.
Relationships: Angharad of Llyr/Geraint
Comments: 90
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this novel I treat the events chronicled in The True Enchanter (the tale in The Foundling collection that details the elopement of Eilonwy's parents) as though it were a simplified and stylized bedtime story passed down by the bards...probably made up by Geraint himself, and spread via rumor after Angharad's disappearance. I set out to explore what really induced Angharad to abandon her home to its apparent destruction, why Achren wanted Eilonwy and even knew about her in the first place, and set the various elements that culminate in the final fall of the ruins of Caer Colur detailed in The Castle of Llyr.
> 
> The only significant departure from canon that makes this an AU is that, rather than Llyr simply being another royal house of Prydain, based on Mona, I created it as its own small kingdom, separate from Prydain, though closely allied. It has its own history, culture, and mythology, with much crossover between it and its neighboring nation.

_“I have sea foam in my veins; I understand the language of the waves.”_

~Jean Cocteau

* * *

Chapter One

“There’s been another slide.”

The words were delivered through pale lips that set themselves in a flat, thin line when they were done. The messenger who brought them kept his eyes averted, downturned, as though unwilling to witness the reaction to them.

He need not have feared it. Angharad, darting a quick, perceptive glance toward her mother, saw the queen’s chest rise and fall once, heavily, but Regat’s carved-marble face remained impassive, her dark eyes unreadable. When she spoke, her voice did not waver. “Where?”

The man’s gaze flickered a little up and vaguely toward the left, still carefully avoiding that of his monarch.“The eastern coast, at the village of Llamorset.” He swallowed. “It happened in the night. Half a dozen cottages were lost; six families, along with their livestock, while they slept. Twenty-three in all. They recovered two bodies on the beach this morning; children.”

Angharad sucked in her breath, but Regat still made no indication of distress. “Did the seawall afford no protection?”

“The wall was taken, your Majesty, from its north end, two-thirds along. You know that Llamorset had built right up to it.” He shut his mouth suddenly and took half a step backwards, as though he had said more than he meant. “It...the entire slope crumbled from below. They are evacuating the remaining houses at the edge.”

“Thank you.” Queen Regat waved him away. “Weshall see to the rebuilding of the wall, and to the relief of those misplaced. I shall send an emissary to assess the needs tomorrow. You may go.”

The man looked taken aback, and wavered a moment. He glanced in Angharad’s direction; she chewed at the insides of her cheeks, and gave him a curt nod. Not until he had bowed himself out and the heavy oak door had shut on his heels did she speak, turning to the queen indignantly.

“ _Mother._ To send him away with no other message?”

“What would you have me tell him?” Regat, bending over the herbs in whose processing they had been interrupted, picked up mortar and pestle as though their weight had doubled. Now that the interloper was gone, weariness and grief were evident in her face and bearing, but her voice was hard. “When the people persist, against all advisement, on building up to the very cliff edges, there will be loss.”

“They’re blaming us for it,” Angharad countered, “for not outright forbidding the building at the edge. For not opening up the interior for settling when they asked, two years ago. You know they are. He almost said it.”

“It is well for him that he did not,” Regat murmured, darkly.

Angharad fell silent, warned by the tone, and attended to the bunches of dried lavender in her hands, snipping the ties and shaking the pale gray-purple buds into the parchment spread on the table. She scooped them into a pile, breathed in the scent to calm herself, steadying her will before she spoke again. “You could have at least assured him that we are seeking the cause.”

She could hear the frown in her mother’s voice. “That would only serve to confirm the fears. Better the people believe the disasters are natural.”

“No one believes that, even when they _are_ natural,” Angharad muttered, throwing the empty stems to the side and drumming the tabletop with her fingertips. “They come up with rubbish about angry gods and bad omens and witchcraft.”

“Who is to say?” A note of humor crept into the queen’s severe tone. “Even the most outrageous legends spring from seeds of truth. It is hardly just, daughter, for you to sit in this chamber, doing what we do, and find fault in anyone for believing in witchcraft.” She tapped the pestle resolutely on the edge of the mortar, as though shaking off public opinion. “Still, until we know the truth of the matter, it is best to make no statement at all, for I will not speak comforting lies. Let them believe what they will, for now.”

She selected a container from the array of clay pots, glass vials, and parchment packets displayed on a nearby shelf, scraped the contents from the mortar into it, and settled it carefully in its place. “We need sweet grass. And ormer - good Llyr!” The queen held up an empty basket in disgust. “How have we run so low on ormer?”

“I think Oren has been taking it to make jewelry for that new initiate,” Angharad answered, biting back a chuckle. “And you stopped sending him and Manawydd to the shore, remember?”

Regat sniffed at mention of her nephews. “They were always coming back with fish heads and broken scallops; nothing the least bit useful. Never send an acolyte to do an enchantress’s job, remember that.” Her own mouth twitched. “New initiate, is it? She’d be better off learning her rituals than flirting with Oren. Why is he even allowed into the grove? Arianrhod makes too many allowances for him. I knew it would be trouble when she bore sons instead of daughters. I shall speak to them both.”

Angharad smothered a smile. “May you have more luck than I did. I already told him he should look elsewhere for his amusement.” She hesitated. “Let me go to the cove for supplies. I’ve not been out in ages. Not for the last two months.”

Regat looked at her levelly, heard all she did not say. “Yes, you have been as confined as our guest, in your way. I never heard anyone make more fuss about a perfectly ordinary pregnancy. But Teleria has always been difficult.”

Angharad winced. “It’s not Teleria’s fault,” she said wearily, feeling mildly defensive on her cousin’s behalf. “I mean, yes, she can be rather…but she was so uncomfortable, you know, at the end, I couldn’t blame her. She’s far more agreeable now she’s got the baby to distract her, and Branwen says they’re both doing so well they can travel back to Mona in a week or two. But…yes, I’ve felt rather…confined.”

She rolled the lavender under her fingertips absently, staring out the nearby casement. The view from the tower spread beneath. Her island: green, verdant, streaked in purple heather over rolling hills broken by crags and cliffs of dark stone, it spread to the dark line of water that surrounded it on all sides, the ever-shifting sea whose thundering breath was, even from this distance, dimly audible. Low-hanging clouds quilted the sky in soft grey. A stone's throw away, a pair of gulls floated upon the breeze, crying to each other in their lonely tongue.

Abruptly Angharad folded the parchment around the herb and slid the packet into an empty space on the shelf. “All this…ill news. Reports of one thing after another, all coming here, all expecting us to _do_ something.” _Trying to hide it from everyone,_ she added silently to herself, wondering what her opinionated cousin would say if she knew she’d given birth in an atmosphere of so much trouble. Teleria, thank goodness, was less observant than she was outspoken. “Sometimes I think word of one more disaster will make the whole castle…crumble. Like the cliffs.” She grimaced. “I am restless. I want to get out.” The thought of the coastline - waves rushing upon the sand and black rock, the gulls crying overhead - pulled suddenly at her throat, tightening it. “I can go and be back by this evening.”

Regat stepped into the shaft of light from the open window and gazed silently upon her daughter for a moment, sadness playing over her face, softening its hard lines. “I remember what it was to be your age, and in your position. I wish I could tell you that restlessness would cease, that one day you will suddenly awaken joyful at your lot. But I cannot. It is the burden we bear.” She stopped herself, and turned away.

Angharad, stunned at such unwonted empathy from her mother, stood motionless for a moment, watching as Regat, in her turn, gazed out the window, surveying the land that she ruled. The queen’s fingers tightened upon the casement sill before one hand let go, waving dismissively toward her daughter without looking at her. “Angharad. Go. Enjoy what freedom you have, while it remains to you.”

The princess hesitated, then curtsied, and hurried from the chamber.

She wasted no time. Regat rarely exercised such lenience and she meant to take full advantage. She waylaid a page on the way to her chambers, sending him to the stables with orders to have her horse prepared, and cantered down a long hallway, distracted by anticipatory thoughts of the seaside.

Her lady-in-waiting, a slim, pretty girl close to her own age, was sitting quietly with an embroidery basket at her feet when Angharad arrived in her rooms, ordering breathlessly, “Elen, quick. Help me change. I’m going out for the day.”

“Out!” Elen rose, laying down her handwork, and hopped over the basket lightly. “It’s about time. Killing yourself moping about inside, that’s what you’ve been. Where to?” Her skilled fingers worked quickly at the laces at her lady’s back, adept with long practice.

“Cove, of course,” the princess murmured, jerking at her long sleeves, eager and impatient.

“Stop that,” Elen ordered. “I’m not done; you’ll rip the seams. How’d you manage to get out of the council this afternoon?”

“I don’t know,” Angharad admitted. “Mother’s not let me miss one in ages - especially now with all that’s been happening.”

“All the quakes?”

“Mm. And the rumors from inland. Strange beasts sighted. Screaming in the night. Sheep slaughtered.”

“Nursery tales,” Elen scoffed.

“Some of it, maybe. But sheep _are_ being lost. Deformed fish in the harbor. Red tide. Even that storm a fortnight ago. We lost a ship.” Angharad turned to the silver-backed glass that hung by the door, and frowned at her reflection.

“Your face will freeze like that if the wind changes,” Elen quipped saucily, quoting their old governess while her reflection grinned at Angharad’s over her shoulder. “There’ve always been storms, even bad ones. People have short memories when they’re afraid. The sea gives and he takes away; such it’s always been. There, pull that off.”

Angharad wriggled out of her long gown and stood in her shift while Elen folded it carefully, and then dug in her trunk for apparel more suitable for the outdoors. “I hope you’re not wanting me to come,” Elen remarked dubiously.

“No. I know how you hate riding.” Angharad poked her head through the top of a long, loose linen tunic and grinned. “I want to be alone, anyhow.”

“Take a cloak,” Elen ordered. “It’s me the queen will blame if you fall ill, going out with your arms bare like that. You’re going swimming, aren’t you?” She raised a suspicious, accusatory eyebrow.

“What do you think?” Angharad pulled another face. “It’s a hot day. But I’ll take a cloak to appease you.” She belted her tunic and pulled on her boots, tucking a small dagger into a pocket at her calf.

“I suppose it’s useless to tell you to be careful,” Elen said. She brandished a shell-toothed comb. “You’re not still for a blessed minute. Sit down so I can braid.”

“Oh, don’t bother.” Angharad waved her off. “I’ll do it on the way. I want to get on.”

“You will not. You’re going to go out all streaming like that. It’ll be impossible when you come back,” the girl moaned. “Wild and full of salt.”

“I’ll wash it, just for you, and without complaining - that should please you, shouldn’t it?”

“Any port in a storm,” Elen muttered darkly, then added, “Are you going in to see Teleria before you go?”

Angharad groaned. “I suppose I should. She’ll be offended if I don’t visit every day. How many times can you pretend to admire a baby who doesn’t _do_ anything yet?”

“At least you have a reason to make it short.” Elen smirked, her grey eyes dancing. “Don’t let her start talking about the labor again or you’ll never get away.”

“Branwen says birth stories are a rite of passage.” Angharad threw on a woolen cloak, buckled a leather pouch by its long strap over her shoulder, and took up a small golden ball from her bedside table, tucking it into a pocket of her tunic. “But if I ever tell one as much as Teleria does, you have my permission to stuff a stocking in my mouth. There, I’m off. I’ll be back before dark.”

“Enjoy yourself.” Elen straightened her cloak and pulled her in to kiss her cheek. Angharad returned her embrace distractedly, and turned down the hall once more, heading to the east wing.

The nursery doors were open and she could hear, a full fifty paces before she reached it, the lusty cries of a healthy newborn and the authoritative voice of the head midwife. Good. With Branwen there it would be easier to get away quickly.

“But he _just ate,_ ” Teleria was saying, as Angharad paused in the doorway. The young mother was sitting up on a couch near an open window, propped upon cushions and wrapped in blankets, and submitting, despite her protests, to the midwife’s wrestling of a squalling, red-faced bundle into the proper position for nursing. Two ladies’ maids hovered anxiously in the background.

“He’s growing. He can’t have too much.” Branwen took no nonsense from anyone, noble or not, especially fractious infants. Her capable hands turned the child’s head toward his mother’s breast, popping it into place when he took another breath to scream. Instantly there was silence, broken only by a sigh of relief from Teleria. “If you’d done that when he first started in to whimper,” Branwen admonished, “he’d have latched much easier.”

Angharad coughed and both looked up. Teleria beamed. “Oh, Angharad! It’s good to see you. I wondered if - oh, do cover that window, Gwynneth, there’s a draft - you’d come today.”

“Not for too long, though, I take it.” Branwen looked the princess over shrewdly. “What’s this getup, milady? Where are you gadding off to?”

“I’m for the shore,” Angharad crossed to the couch, pausing to embrace the midwife. Branwen’s massive, middle-aged figure combined strength with softness; arms that had caught and cradled hundreds of babies enveloped her affectionately. She smelled of raspberry leaves and fenugreek and milk; like safety and warmth. “We need supplies for the full moon, and I want some fresh air.”

Branwen glanced sideways at Teleria and knowingly back to Angharad, her lined face creasing in a faint, sardonic smile.“So I imagine. Bring me back vervain if you find any.”

“How lovely to get out for a bit,” Teleria sighed, looking wistful. Her plump face was rosy and healthy, but there were weary circles under her eyes, and her pale braids were tousled as though her hair had not been brushed in days. “Perhaps once I get a night’s sleep again…”

“Don’t expect that for some time yet,” Branwen interrupted, handing her a steaming cup.

Angharad sat carefully at the edge of the couch. “How’s wee Rhun today?”she asked, reaching for the baby’s tiny hand which, having escaped his swaddling, waved about aimlessly in the air. The little pink digits closed around her forefinger and clutched it.

Teleria radiated pride. “Look how clever!” she cooed. “Already holding things! He’s a strong boy. Just like his father.”

Angharad bit back the comment that all babies did this, and lit upon the topic presented. “Have you heard from Rhuddlum yet?” Word had been sent of the birth immediately, of course, to the royal family on Mona, but the child had been born just before the storm a fortnight ago, and there was a chance the messenger had been lost in it.

“Oh, yes. Just yesterday!” exclaimed Teleria. “The courier arrived after the tempest; blown off course, you know, and had to travel back once they - ouch! don’t scratch so, child, dear me, what claws - came to the mainland. He’s transcendent, of course. So thrilled to have a son. The whole family crowing about the next heir to the crown. You know how the men are over there.” She laughed tolerantly at the patrilineal excitement of her homeland kin. Branwen grunted faint disapproval.

“I’m glad he’s doing well,” Angharad said, prying her finger loose from the baby’s grip. The child had nursed himself to sleep; his bald round head eased itself back until his mouth relaxed and gaped open, dribbling milk into the folds of his neck. Teleria giggled fondly and dabbed at it with a handful of her shift, and his pale blue eyes opened slightly and rolled back into his head before the lids closed again.

“Yes,” Teleria sighed. “Very well. Of course he was so big and healthy, it’s to be expected. But I declare, I never thought he’d come. Those last few days I thought I’d burst - oh, I’ve spilt my tea, hand me the towel, would you dear - no, not that! That’s a wet clutch - but I knew, somehow, that morning, that it would be the day. But you’re not leaving yet?”

“I must, I think.” Angharad rose, feigning reluctance. “I need enough time to find what we need. I only popped in to let you know why I couldn’t visit long today.” She bent and kissed Teleria, and then the baby’s velvety head. The warm, acrid newborn scent tingled through her senses, strange and compelling. Branwen always said the smell of a baby’s head was as potent a drug as anything in the herbals.

“Well, do be careful,” Teleria clucked anxiously. “It isn’t natural, a girl alone, going out all by yourself, traipsing the countryside. They’d never allow it at home.”

“This _is_ my home,” Angharad said, rather shortly. “I’ve nothing to fear from it. Take care. Get your rest.”

She embraced Branwen again and escaped before Teleria could say anything else.

Tan, her chestnut mare, was saddled, bridled and waiting at the stable; the grooms, eyes averted, saluted her as she mounted, crossing their wrists over their hearts in the gesture of respect due her rank. She barely saw them; barely saw the guards who did the same as they rolled open the castle gates for her; her eyes were on the sky and the dark wedge of blue nestled in the green arms of the horizon. Gulls screamed overhead like heralds. Angharad laid her heels in the horse’s flanks, clamped her knees to its sides. The salt air filled her streaming hair as the turf melted away beneath flying hooves.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stripping to his skin and shouldering a net sack, he waded waist-deep into the sea, picking carefully around the slippery rocks. Scraping the black shells from their anchors with a knife, watching the flesh writhe as they gaped and then snapped shut under the assault, was satisfying…more so, somehow, than being plied with food by hospitable islanders, as much as he’d enjoyed it. He’d eat well tonight, by his own hand. After an hour or so, net full, he turned, sliding through the deep water like a wet seal, back toward the land.
> 
> And froze, mid-stagger, his feet stuck in a sandbar.
> 
> There was a woman standing at the water’s edge. Watching him.

_They love the sea,_

_Men who ride on it_

_And know they will die_

_Under the salt of it_

~ Carl Sandburg

* * *

Chapter 2

A sheltered wedge of land, protected from the winds by jutting black cliffs, sloped open toward the southern horizon, a triangle of bright green whose lowest broad end fragmented itself in salt-eroded boulders, the boulders into stones, into pebbles, into sand. Foam-flecked sheets of glassy water slid peacefully back and forth over the lowest sandy slope, the sea pretending, here, to be a completely different force than the thundering fury that pounded endlessly at the stony feet of the sheltering cliffs.

At the highest point of green, close to where the stone walls met and joined, a tiny grey building sat at their base, lonely and forlorn, like a forgotten jackstone left behind by a child giant. A stream ran nearby, broken and ancient crockery littering its banks. In the cleared space around it, tattered shreds of old netting, heaped in small piles or drifting over rocks, proclaimed it a former fisherman's hut. Decrepit, tumbledown, overgrown with moss and lichens, the stone walls looked in the process of sighing as they settled back into the landscape, eager to melt away until the last evidence of human habitation disappeared.

Just before the doorway of the hut, a young man was arranging a brace of fresh fish over the smoke of a small fire. Presently he paused, stretched, and surveyed the seaward edge of his sanctuary.

He’d been there a fortnight now. It hadn’t been his plan, but...plans change. When a short pleasure-trip of a boat ride off the mainland turns into a blowing off-course by a sudden gale, a man has to change plans quickly and decisively, after all, and might as well stay equally open to whatever happens afterward. Geraint had always been one to take events as they came.

It had been a relief when his battered craft had reached this shore, when he’d been able to crawl exhausted onto the beach, throw down his oars with aching arms and thank Llyr himself for not dashing him against the cliffs. He could barely believe his good fortune when he saw the old hut standing there, waiting, as though just for him. Its roof had long since crumbled in, and he’d spent two nights stargazing before a drenching rain reminded him that comfort demanded a certain amount of practicality…starting with new thatch.

He’d set out on the next day, to search for supplies and try to determine where he was. There turned out to be a village within an hour’s walk, whose inhabitants exhibited wonderment at the arrival of a tall and fair-haired stranger. They supplied both food and information, which he paid for in his customary manner, entertaining the entire population for an evening around the village fire, watching the children’s eyes pop and the adults’ sparkle as he told stories and performed his illusions. When he was done, the clamor over which household would offer him hospitality almost came to blows, so he laid the conflict to rest by declaring that he was quite happy in his own space, and had returned to his sheltered cove and fishing hut by moonlight, plied with gifts of food, blankets and tools, after promising to visit again. He was awkwardly aware that a handful of girls had followed him almost halfway back; they hadn’t bothered to be discrete. At one point several of them loudly admonished an already-married member of the party to make her shameless way back home. Eventually the last stragglers had turned back, with disappointed remarks in his direction that made him blush. He was unused to such forwardness from females, but then, he’d never been to this island before.

He knew of it, of course; a wanderer heard many tales, true and false, mostly somewhere between. He had vague thoughts of repairing his boat and then paddling around the coast until he came to the main port. Then perhaps making a proper visit to the civilized parts of the island before returning back to Mona. All in good time, however.The isle of Llyr figured prominently in much local mystery and legend, and he was eager both to add to his repertoire of stories, and to satisfy his own curiosity. Meanwhile, his position was comfortable, with the sea and the village providing sufficient resources. He was in no hurry. Perhaps he’d stay the summer.

He ambled to the shoreline, swinging long limbs with lazy grace. The sun was hot, the tide low - the exposed rocks revealed a tempting glimpse of clinging mussels, ripe for the harvest. No time like the present.

Stripping to his skin and shouldering a net sack, he waded waist-deep into the sea, picking carefully around the slippery rocks.Scraping the black shells from their anchors with a knife, watching the flesh writhe as they gaped and then snapped shut under the assault, was satisfying…more so, somehow, than being plied with food by hospitable islanders, as much as he’d enjoyed it. He’d eat well tonight, by his own hand. After an hour or so, net full, he turned, sliding through the deep water like a wet seal, back toward the land.

And froze, mid-stagger, his feet stuck in a sandbar.

There was a woman standing at the water’s edge. Watching him.

It took him a moment to comprehend it. There should be nothing so terribly strange about anyone standing there, though over the last few days he had grown to take his solitude for granted - but this particular someone…was…

Remarkable.

Tall, slim, her white garments cut and draped in a manner strange to him; baring pale arms in a fashion that would be considered scandalous on the mainland. Her long hair was unbound, and streamed in rivulets of fiery gold to her waist. Her posture was straight as a young birch, her chin high, her gaze direct and unflinching.

So much could he see from this distance, enough to make him stand still, utterly confused, burdened with a sense of unreality. The girl was staring at him, but she was too far away for him to read her expression; it might have been surprise, or anger, or impassive observation. Thrilling, spine-tingling stories of sea-spirits and faerie queens raced through his head all in an instant and the world seemed to waver before his eyes. An errant breaker chose that moment to hit him from behind, and he toppled over with a splash.

When he rose up, spluttering, the wave had carried him further in, to water that would have been knee-deep had he cared to stand – which he did not, suddenly recalling that he was as bare as a newborn. Sitting up awkwardly, he looked up again. The girl was still there, close enough to see that her expression, whatever it had been before, was now one of amusement. She was still too far away for him to speak over the noise of the surf, and she made no attempt to communicate; she only watched him, apparently content to wait and see what he would do next.

Geraint felt a helpless twinge of vexation. Even a goddess could allow a man his dignity. Young ladies, in his experience, should blush and giggle and at least pretend to be shocked when confronted with such a scene – under which circumstance he might parade proudly forth and enjoy making a sensation. But this creature just stood there calmly observing, as though he were some new and mildly interesting type of fish washing up on the beach.

His clothing lay in a pile upon a boulder a few feet from the water's edge. He stared at it desperately, and the girl followed his gaze and grinned a grin that instantly dissolved his notions of divine or eldritch creatures. A fae creature might smile with such mischief, but not with such a knowing quirk of eyebrow and sardonic twist of mouth, betraying an understanding of his predicament that could only have come from a place of human empathy. He couldn’t decide whether this comforted and embarrassed him further.

After a moment’s pause during which he was sure she was going to make him drag himself from the water before her eyes, and was working up the courage and pride to do so, she finally moved, stepping over to the boulder, where she pulled off her boots and gathered up her skirt to tuck it into her belt, displaying a pair of legs bare to the thigh with no apparent embarrassment. She took up his garments, shook out the sand, and splashed into the water herself, wading toward him.

Geraint had a moment’s panic over the fact that the clarity of the shallow water afforded him almost as little modesty as standing up would have, and only pride prevented him from scuttling backwards – pride, and the distracting observation, as another breaker smacked into him, that the waves actually _parted_ as they reached the girl, their white-webbed crests dividing on either side of a valley through which she moved, joining again seamless beyond her. Within that valley her bare ankles swept along, as though fording a quiet stream instead of the capricious currents of the sea.

He began, the hair on his neck prickling, to reassess her humanity.

But by then she was approaching within speaking-distance, and there was no avoiding the communication, no matter what she was; not if courtesy and prudence were to be maintained. He gingerly arranged his net full of mussels over his lap. When she stopped an arm’s length away from him, he forced himself, with all the self-respect he could muster, to look her in the face.

The breath caught in his throat, wavered and fled away.

She was young, barely past the edge of adulthood despite a distinct aura of authority, and vividly, fiercely beautiful. Her eyes were the color of sunlight shining through seawater; their turquoise shards bored into him and drove away the words of thanks that had been forming on his tongue. The angles of her face, fine almost to the point of severity, were balanced by a high, rounded forehead and a soft, full mouth. Once again, opposing ideas of divinity and mortality wrestled for dominance in the back of his mind – or would have, had he been able to think with any clarity. Kneeling at her feet, he might as well have been a supplicant at the altar of some goddess, gazing up at her with such spellbound awe that he noticed nothing else.

After an eternity, or perhaps just a moment, her mouth once again pulled into a grin that was decidedly human. “You did want these, did you not?” she asked, and he realized she’d been holding out his garments toward him the entire time. “I took the trouble of making the trip, but if you’ve changed your mind, I can always—,”

“Oh!” He gathered them from her, blushing furiously, and laughed despite his embarrassment. She turned around and moved toward the shore with a slow, deliberate gait that said she was fully aware of the concession she gave him, but he was grateful for it, and yanked his tunic over his head as he rose, quickly, so as not to miss a moment of watching the sunlight catch fire upon that cascading red-gold river of hair.

She kept her back toward him even when they reached the beach, waiting while he hopped on one foot and then the other to pull up his leggings. In between hops he gasped out his gratitude, previous vexation forgotten. “I thank you...milady. And...I beg forgiveness...for such an unseemly manner...of meeting.” 

At last decently attired, he straightened up just in time, for she turned around upon the last word, her finely-arched brows quirked up like wings, mouth twitching. “Unseemly? On the contrary, this was one of the more…entertaining meetings, in my experience. But if it makes you feel better -” She made a careless gesture with one of her slim hands. “Very well. I forgive you.” As she moved he noticed, for the first time, the fine silver chain about her throat, from which dangled a silver crescent moon, its horns embracing a brilliant, colorless gem.

Nothing else was necessary to confirm his suspicions. Her manner, her voice, and that symbol denoted her position as clearly as if she’d been wearing a golden circlet on her brow.

He bowed low, as courtesy dictated. “Thank you…Princess.”

She favored him with an unsurprised nod. “Angharad of Llyr. You have the advantage of me, stranger. You are not, I think, of this island.”

“You know your subjects well,” he said, straightening up. “I am Geraint, son of Durhaim of Gellau.”

“Gellau?” She looked thoughtful. “One of the cantrevs of Prydain. A few days southwest of Caer Dathyl, at the foot of the Giant’s Throne.” He saw a flash of something that looked almost hungry in her face, an eager, desperate curiosity, before a veil seemed to drop, and the composed goddess returned. “It is a long way from Llyr. How came you here, and...” she gestured around at the secluded valley and laughed, “... _here?_ You are leagues from the harbor. We heard no rumor of guests.”

Geraint pointed at a large pile of rocks further up the beach. “Behind that, my lady, you might find a boat rather the worse for wear. I was amusing myself with a borrowed craft a fortnight ago, just off the mainland, and...”

“Yes,” Angharad interjected.“That storm. It was magnificent.” Her face flushed; she seemed to look past him at something and a fey, green flame flickered in her eyes. It raised gooseflesh on his arms, though whether he found it strangely attractive or a little disturbing, he could not have said.

He hesitated. “That...might not be the word I would have chosen.”

She looked at him, softened, and smiled a little apologetically. “Likely not. But it brought you here, when it could have done worse. How have you fared?”

“I have fared much worse,” Geraint admitted, “and I cannot complain, since the sea saw fit to wash me up in a spot with such fine accommodations.”

Angharad followed his gaze to the tumbledown fisherman’s cottage. “That’s been there for...I don’t even know how long. Bit damp, is it?” She turned as she spoke, and began strolling toward it. Geraint followed, bemused, wondering what, exactly, proper protocol dictated.

“It was,” he said, “but I have not been idle. Erhm...” he cleared his throat. “It seems hardly a fitting place to entertain a Daughter of Llyr, but if milady would care to see it...” He checked himself. “Unless it would besmirch your honor.”

Angharad pulled up short and looked at him in surprise. “Why should it do that?”

Geraint coughed. “Um. Will it not be...considered un…untoward for you to be alone for long in a man’s company?”

Her green gaze became a rather frosty glare. “I have heard of such...considerations...on the mainland,” she answered. There was a faint note of contempt in her voice. “The Daughters of Llyr are free to be in the company of anyone they choose without having their honor questioned. Is that disagreeable to you, Geraint of Gellau?”

He gulped, and bowed a little again. “Even if it were, my lady – which it is not – I could make no objection here. So, then...” he shook the net of mussels in the air hopefully. “Perhaps you would care to share my harvest?”

She laughed again, looking as though it surprised her to do so, and threw her head back, eyes dancing. “You are on _my_ island, which makes those my mussels, and furthermore you are staying on my favorite stretch of beach, so suppose we say that I extend you _my_ hospitality.” She motioned, rather grandly, for him to precede her, and he shouldered the net with a grin, and trotted past her up the slope.

Thankful that he’d spent at least a little time clearing out the small garden in front of the hut of its detritus, Geraint paused at its edge to bow low, as befitted a host welcoming a royal guest. “Yours it may be, lady,” he declared, with a wink, “but still, I welcome you to my current home...such as it is.” He ushered her to the nearest boulder and she sat, with a gravity he suspected was only partially in jest, curling her legs up onto its base and hooking one bare foot around the opposite calf with the sensuous grace of a cat. He swallowed hard, and turned away quickly, busying himself with his duties.

Angharad watched him, silent, while he stoked his banked fire and cleaned the mussels, and presently asked, “How did you know me?”

Geraint glanced at her, wondering how frank he dared to be. “I travel much, milady. I have crossed the length and breadth of Prydain, or very near; I collect the stories and legends of every tribe and cantrev, and many are the stories of Llyr. Of its peril, its mystery, its beauty…and of its rulers, one flaming-haired princess in particular.”

She raised one eyebrow, not offended; but not, apparently, particularly impressed. “Hmph. What of her? Peril, mystery, or beauty?”

Geraint blinked. “All three, to be sure. I know story, my lady,” he went on, “and it has a pattern. You must know that every princess is beautiful, just as every seventh son is honest, brave, and lucky. So always, I hold local legend with a loose and generous hand. But I think...” he paused, and kept his eyes fixed on his knife as he bearded the mussels. “I think that never have I had less cause for skepticism.”

She was silent at this, so long that he glanced up to find her still watching him, her face inscrutable. “Are you a bard, then?” she asked after a moment. “You are full young to have earned that rank.”

“No,” Geraint said, a little ruefully, “I am no bard. I have no wish to undertake all that position requires, nor do I desire the honor it confers. I am a wanderer and a teller of tales.”

“I've never heard of such a thing,” Angharad remarked, a little dryly, and he shrugged.

“It’s enough for me.” A spark of mischief made him flip a mussel in the air. “You see, a man without title may go where he pleases, do what he wishes, if he has the skill to fend for himself.” He caught the shell in his other hand, where, suddenly, several others had appeared. In a few deft motions of his hands they had surrounded the single shell and bounced it back and forth. “To be of rank, to have a title, is to be subjected to others’ expectations, tossed to and fro by the rules and whims of men.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Angharad stiffen and lean forward, almost felt the intensity of her gaze burn hot upon his hands, and he nearly lost focus, his practiced movements faltering for the merest heartbeat. He was used to holding the rapt attention of his audience, of course, but his audience had never been...well, had never been _her._ Recovering, he tossed the single shell back into his right hand and twirled it, diverting her attention while he flicked the other handful from sight.

“Surely he must wish sometimes to make them all just...disappear?” His left hand spread, empty, before him, and he waited, more anxiously than his wont, for her reaction.

He was accustomed to delight, to childlike exclamations of wonderment, and astonished laughter, but she somehow did not seem likely to respond in those ways. He wasn’t sure what he expected. What he did _not_ expect was for her face to flush and eyes to blaze; did not expect her to leap up from the boulder and stare him down like a flaming-haired fury. But this she did.

“ _How did you do that?”_ Angharad demanded breathlessly, in a tone that disallowed his usual playful claims of magic. This fierce, almost angry intensity was not, he knew instinctively, something with which to banter.

“It’s...only sleight-of-hand, milady,” he murmured, stepping back and motioning toward the ground where he’d scattered the shells. “I meant no-”

“No, not _that,_ ” she interrupted irritably, not even deigning to look. “You are no magician; I know _that_...how did...” she broke off, made a strangled sound of frustration, and flung her hand out toward the fire as though casting something away. Instantly the golden flames leaped up with a roar; crackling blue and green at their edges and throwing such heat that he stumbled backward with a cry.

The blaze died as suddenly as it had sprung up, and for a moment the girl stared at it, her breath audible. When she turned back to him the fury was gone and so was the goddess; her face was vulnerable, open, hungry.

His hands clenched in the folds of his tunic.

“If I have offended you, lady,” he murmured, measuring his breath, “I beg your forgiveness. What you saw...it is my habit. When you tell tales for your bread,” he added, with a wan, self-deprecating smile, “then everything becomes a story.”

She stared at him searchingly, as though trying to read truth in his face, and her voice was almost defiant when she spoke. “But you told me mine, Geraint of Gellau. Mine,” she sighed, and her shoulders sloped forward almost imperceptibly, “as no one has ever dared tell me, as I have never dared tell it even to myself.” A flicker of humor crossed her face again. “I don’t know if I can forgive you for that. But I’ll try.”

She sat, and stared moodily into the fire.


	3. Chapter 3

_You look at her like_

_she is the sea_

_at the end of a cliff,_

_You look at her like_

_the leap into her depths_

_will either kill you,_

_drown you,_

_or set you free._

~Nikita Gill

* * *

Chapter 3

Geraint returned to his preparations warily, hanging the net of clean shells over the flames, placing a chipped clay pot of stream water on the embers beneath. “I wonder,” he mused out loud, “what brings the Princess of Llyr to such a lonely shore, so far from...wherever it is she came from.”

Angharad shot him an amused glance. “I come here when I wish to be alone — though lately, not as often as I have wished. It isn’t far, really – less than an hour’s ride, a bit more if you walk. Have you seen nothing more of the island?”

He told her of his visit to the nearby village and she nodded. “Abernant. I live in the other direction - though Caer Colur is generally reached via the main road from the harbour. Perhaps you’d care to visit it next.”

“If I would be welcome.”

She stared at him levelly and did not respond to this, noticing instead that he was no longer employed in preparing food. “You may sit. I mean,” she sighed, and shook her head as though weary. “Please be at your ease.”

He felt her gaze on him as he crouched on his heels and poked at the fire; it was disquieting; he had never known any young woman to watch a man so openly. Even those who did stare pretended not to, for modesty’s sake. He might have enjoyed it more if he’d felt she was staring in admiration, but her look and manner still denoted little more than curiosity and amusement. 

The embers sparked and crackled and he thought of that sudden blaze. “Hm. Might I be...impertinent enough to ask,” he began, “what that bit of—,” He wiggled his fingers toward the fire.

Angharad looked wry. “That bit of very poor self-control? I'm sorry about that. It had to come out somewhere.” She spread her hands out and looked at them thoughtfully. “Surely all those stories don’t leave out what we are.”

“No,” Geraint said, “but I confess, I did not anticipate such an...incendiary demonstration.”

She laughed at this, a real, surprised peal of laughter. “Who _are_ you, Geraint son of Durhaim? You speak like a nobleman, perform like a bard, and scrub mussels like a scullery maid. Who is your family?” The laugh was still on her lips, but her voice was becoming earnest, eager, gathering that ferocious intensity he was beginning to recognize. “What is it like in Gellau? How long have you wandered? Who have you met in your travels? Where-”

Geraint held up a hand with a grin and she stopped, with obvious effort. “There are stories enough there for many days, Princess.”

“Start with the first, then,” she commanded, her eyes challenging him as she sat back, obviously expecting obedience.

He chuckled. “Very well. My father Durhaim was scrivener to King Cadoc of Gellau - a man of letters. He would have liked to take the bardic trials himself, but he suffered long illness that prevented him from the rigors of that life. So you see I grew up among the royal family, and I absorbed their manners, I suppose. When my father died…”

“Not yet,” she interrupted. “Who was your mother?” 

“Oh.” Of course she would want to know that. “Her name was Heledd. Daughter of Cerwen. She loved to sing. In fact she used to say she was a descendant of Menwy himself, but I don’t know the truth of that. She died when I was quite young.”

“I’m sorry,” Angharad said quietly. “Go on.”

“When I lost my father I was fourteen. The king offered to give me his place. It was kind of him, and I could have done it, I suppose, but…” Geraint shook his head, with a rueful grimace. “There were…complications. I fancied myself quite in love with a nobleman’s daughter at the time.” He glanced at Angharad; she was grinning and he blushed. “It was nothing - the foolishness of a boy in the first flush of youth. But her brother found out…intercepted letters we had written to one another. He let me know in no uncertain terms that my birth and rank left me unfit to…clean up after her horse,” he snorted. “Not that those were his exact words.”

Geraint glanced at her again; she no longer laughed, but neither did she look as indignant as he might hope, at the details. “I realized at that point that no matter how long I lived in the king’s service, I would never be accepted into his society.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it shouldn’t matter, but it vexed me, even while I —quite sensibly— told myself I didn’t _want_ to be a part of it, if that was the way it was. Beyond that, I was tired of being told what I could and couldn’t do. So I left.”

She blinked into the silence. “You left. Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“But where did you go?”

“Well,” Geraint smiled, shaking the mussels over the steam as they began to pop open. “First, by sheer luck, I happened upon a Rover camp, and they took me on in exchange for another pair of working hands. As fate would have it, my first job was exactly the one that proud brother of my first love had declared me too low for.” He heard Angharad giggle and disguise it as a polite cough. “I can tell you right off; nobody’s too low for that. But I was clever enough to make myself useful to everyone in the camp, and gradually I learned many skills - including those I survive on, now.” He shook the net again. “Meanwhile I discovered I loved traveling, loved the freedom of their lives. I saw much of the land with them.”

“But you aren’t with them now,” she observed. “Why did you leave them?”

“They had certain rounds,” he said. “A pattern from which they rarely deviated. And I wanted to see more. Also, though they are generous and accepting, I never felt quite…one of them. I was never permitted to take the lead in any of their trades, though in a few years I was as capable in several as any of their own. I realized I would never be truly free until I set out on my own. So I did. That was…three years ago? No, four. It’s a bit hard to keep track. I’m not even sure how old I am anymore. The Rovers pay no attention to birthdays. Twenty-some-odd.”

The mussels were done; Geraint took the net off the fire and laid it on a boulder swept clean of debris, and then looked around a little doubtfully, as though platters might magically appear. “I’m afraid I am unprepared to entertain a lady in formal fashion,” he confessed, holding up a flat, broad bit of slate. “I’ve been using this as a plate.”

Angharad laughed again; it was a delicious sound, open and careless; she suddenly seemed completely at ease, the formality of her bearing and speech melting away. “I’m starving,” she said. “I’ll eat them right off this rock. Do you have a spare knife? I left mine with my boots over on the beach. Stupid of me.”

Geraint handed her the small knife he used for cooking, contenting himself with the larger dagger he’d used to harvest the mussels. She snatched a steaming shell, burned her fingers, and dropped it again with a squeak. He laughed before he could stop himself; she shot him a look of amused outrage, and he offered her an open mussel as restitution. “You’ve never cooked for yourself, have you?”

Angharad looked as wry as it is possible to do while eating mussels. “No,” she said frankly. “I brought food, provisions of the traveling sort, you know, but it’s up there.” She waved her hand toward the clifftops. “My horse’s saddlebags. I’ll leave it with you to make up for what I take. You can’t have too much, out here on your own.” She looked thoughtful. “I should like to know how to cook. I always thought it looked rather like magic. Mix the right ingredients and you’ve got something new. Oh! Drat,” she said suddenly, “I’m supposed to be collecting kelp and ormer. You made me forget what I came for.”

That smile again. Geraint took a breath, and let it out slowly to steady himself. “I saw plenty, out among the mussels. Why do you want it?”

“We use it in spells,” she said, cracking another shell, and added, “and in jewelry,” in a tone that suggested something amused her.

“I can get it for you,” he offered, anxious to do something else to please her.

Her eyes danced at him over the edge of the shell. “I’d like to see that again. Shall I hold your clothes for you?”

Geraint choked on the bite he’d just taken, and stumbled to his feet as he tried to cough. Angharad sprang up and delivered a surprisingly strong blow to his back; the lump in his throat popped free and he swallowed it down, conscious that his face was blazing.

“Good thing they’re slippery,” she remarked, handing him a water flask from her belt. “Sorry. That was mean of me.” She was red-faced herself, but, he suspected, more from suppressed laughter than at any embarrassment at discomfiting him. “It’s kind of you, but no - I have to do it myself. There’s a proper way to go about it if they’re to be of any use to us.”

“I see,” he gasped out, as soon as he could speak again. “I’m sorry. That caught me off guard.”

Angharad grinned. “You can come with me, though, if you like. I can arrange for you not to need such…precautions.”

Curiosity made him acquiesce. “Very well. Any way I can be of service.”

“Yes. But later.” She sat again. “I’m still hungry, and you’ve only had that one bite. Not a very satisfying one, either.”

He had no concept of time passing, nor even of eating, though he must have done so, for the mussels eventually disappeared and there were as many empty shells on the ground around him as there were at her feet. She plied him with more questions about his past, about life among the Rovers, about what he had seen in his travels across Prydain. He told her of the verdant south, the green and rolling farmland; the spectacle of towering cliff and sea that ringed the southwest coast, the lonely starkness of the marshlands that separated them. He told her of the purple-heathered, grey-veined hills of his own land, the blue lakes set like gems, hidden away in the hollows beneath the Giant’s Throne. When he spoke of the mountains in the north, the pinnacles and needles of stone capping their summits, her eyes dilated and face flushed in a way that made him forget what he was saying. He trailed off into silence, but she seemed not to notice.

“I should so like to see real mountains again,” she breathed. “I saw the Eagle once, when I visited Caer Dathyl, years ago. It was magnificent.”

“You haven’t been off this island much, I take it,” he said.

“I’ve been to Mona many times.” She nodded toward their larger neighbor to the south. “To the mainland, only once.”

“But the House of Llyr is allied with the House of Don,” Geraint mused. “Or so it is said. Isn’t it odd that there should be so few visits? For diplomacy’s sake, if nothing else?”

“Yes, we are,” Angharad said shortly. “There is kinship between the houses if you go back ages. The daughters of Llyr are also descended from a daughter of Don.…it’s where this hair comes from.” She ran her hands through her fiery mane, pulling it away from her face with a grin. “Didn’t see this anywhere in Abernant, did you? I’m a throwback, a reminder that we owe as much to Belin as Llyr. Not everyone likes to be reminded.” 

The careless tug and tangle of her fingers through her hair made him catch his breath again, and Geraint looked away, trying to distract himself. What had she just said? Anywhere in Abernant…no, come to think of it; though that vivid golden-red crown of hers would have been notable anywhere, there was a distinct lack of anything but dark heads in the village. No wonder the ladies had exclaimed over his own crop of pale-gold curls.

“Prince Gwydion has visited Caer Colur several times,” Angharad went on, drawing him back to himself. “I have….an open invitation, more or less, to return such visits, but….the queen doesn’t encourage it. And I have too many duties here to leave for long.” She looked mildly uncomfortable, her face reddening, and Geraint felt stricken with a sudden, irrational dislike of the crown prince.

“Speaking of duty,” she continued, rising, “I must collect what I came for. I promised to be back before dark.”

Geraint scrambled to his feet as she turned, noting for the first time that the sun was growing low. He followed her down to the cluster of standing rocks where she had left her boots and other items, watched while she shouldered a leather pouch. “Stay next to me,” she instructed, and waded into the surf.

Once again he watched in wonder as the waves parted before her, and hurried to place himself in the same vicinity of calm water, in the shadow-trail she left before the breakers rejoined. Around them the sea grew higher, but the waves continued to divide, flowing gently past, effortless. “Does it just…do that for you?” Geraint asked, incredulous. “Or do you have to make it happen?”

“It’s a warding spell,” Angharad said carelessly. “So it requires a little something from me. But not much.”

She waved a hand over the surface of the water, then dipped into it as one might dip a cupped hand to drink. But the hand she brought up did not rise wet and streaming; it cupped instead a rounded bead of water, like a drop of dew on the surface of a velvet-leafed herb, only many times larger.

“Great Belin,” Geraint breathed. Angharad’s sea-green eyes glittered at him across the bead.

“No,” she said, amused, “he has nothing to do with this.”

He laughed, realizing his mistake. “Of course. Llyr, isn’t it?” He poked at the shimmering bead; it quivered and held its shape, even as his fingers breached the surface and came out dripping, as they might from any puddle. “What else can you do with it?”

“Oh, just.…” She slid the bead from one hand to another, twisted her fingers in the air. Before his eyes it elongated, shimmering, fluidly divided itself until it took on the shape of a five-pointed star…another twist, and it flowed into the form of a scallop shell, transparent as glass. “Anything I can think of, I suppose. It’s just a game, really. We learn it as play, as children.” She let the bead slide from her hand and back to the surface; it landed with a plop like a giant raindrop and was gone.

They had reached the rocks where he’d seen the ormer, tightly clustered around the bases and in the clefts of stone. Other small attached creatures, tentacled, soft-bodied, multi-colored, waved gently in the current, a small underwater forest. Angharad dropped to her knees to reach the shells; the water rose to her chest, and her brilliant hair spread like rays of light across the surface, rippling with the slight movement of every wave that crested quietly past them — a sight that captured his attention so fully that Geraint did not notice what she was doing until she handed him the leather pouch she carried, already heavy with ormer.

“How’d you…? That was fast,” he exclaimed, peering inside at the mass of shells, undulating softly in their death throes. While he was looking she dropped in two more. “You don’t even have a knife.”  
  
“No,” she chuckled, “they come off because I ask them to.”

“Of course they do,” he retorted. “Next you’ll tell me they willingly sacrifice themselves.”

“Weellll.” She looked rueful. “In a manner of speaking. But they don’t really _feel_ it, you know, not in the way we would. And we eat them, too — it’s not _just_ vanity and magic. Nothing gets wasted.”

She rose to her feet and motioned for him to follow; he did so like a man in a dream, trying rather unsuccessfully not to notice how her wet hair and garments clung to the lines of her figure, until they were on dry land again.

“Now then,” she said, and followed it up with a string of words he did not understand. Only after she had stared at him expectantly for several seconds did he realize, with a wordless exclamation, that they were both perfectly dry.

Angharad sat on the rock and pulled her boots back on. “How long will you stay here?” she asked abruptly, breaking his surprised silence.

“Oh…” Geraint bit back reckless words that he might stay where he could see her forever, and shoved the thought down as the madness it was. What good would staying do; what on earth could he hope for? “I haven’t decided. It is pleasant here, and I have nowhere to go and no way to get there, until I repair my boat.” He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “I thought I might stay the summer.”

She stared at him, inscrutable; he could not tell whether she was pleased or not. “I…I mean,” he stammered, remembering their respective positions, “if it is permissible. I am here on your good graces,after all, a guest of the island.”

“An uninvited one,” she remarked, with a teasing twitch of her mouth, “but I shall be lenient. Wouldn’t you rather stay somewhere else? There are guest quarters in Caer Colur; you’d be much more comfortable.”

The thought of staying near her plucked at him with an almost overwhelming temptation. But… “No,” he answered. “I thank you, princess. But I am in no position to be a guest of the royal house. Here I am free to be who I am, without apology, as I could not be in your home.”

“Hm,” she said, staring at him, thoughtful. A little of the goddess returned, as though in response to the impudent idea that they could be on equal footing, anywhere, and she said with sudden severity, “Are you aware that on this island, Geraint of Gellau, it is not permissible for any common man to look a Daughter of Llyr in the eye?”

Geraint opened his mouth and then closed it again, stunned. Confusion enveloped him as he dragged his gaze from her eyes, only to have it bounce frantically about other bits of her that seemed far less appropriate. Finally he fixed it somewhere vaguely to her right. “I…I was not, milady, or at least…that is one of the rumors, but…forgive me, I…”

“No,” she interrupted, “I knew you did not know. I am glad of it. Look at me.”

Her emerald gaze shot through him again, burned into his heart. “I told you so that you would not be in ignorance if you ever come to court,” she explained, and then for the first time her own eyes faltered, danced away as if she were unsure of herself. “My mother is not so lenient. But I…find it…pleasant. Out here, where there is no one to see, to condemn you — please always face me as you do now.”

Her face was flushed, glowing in the golden light of the lowering sun. Geraint bit his lip, swallowed hard, and coughed before speaking, for he did not trust his voice. “Does that mean you’ll come back?”

Angharad glanced back at him quickly and then away. “I told you,” she said, a small smile playing at her lips, “I come here often.”


	4. Chapter 4

_So comes to us at time, from the unknown_

_And inaccessible solitudes of being,_

_The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;_

_And inspirations, that we deem our own,_

_Are some divine of foreshadowing and foreseeing_

_Of things beyond our reason or control._

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* * *

Chapter Four

The ride back felt too short, even with Tan moving at an easy walk rather than the rocking canter she had maintained most of the way to the coast.

Too short, but then, Angharad wasn’t sure any amount of time would have been enough to mull over events to her own satisfaction. To push the last several hour’s worth of fleeting recollection into long memory before any detail died…and indeed, to ferret out why it seemed so important to do so.

“That was interesting,” she said out loud, to the empty air, halfway into the journey home. Tan’s ear flicked back at her. “I’ve never met anyone quite like that,” she continued, directing herself more or less toward the mare, “or in that manner. I don’t exactly know what to make of him.”

She had been somewhat peeved upon her arrival at the edge of the water to see that the stretch of sea she had intended to bathe in, herself, was already occupied. Of course it wasn’t unheard of for fishermen to seek the sheltered cove during the day, and she always scanned the area for possible witnesses before a swim. Which was evidently more than this young fellow had done.

At first she’d simply been aware that someone was there, tooling about among the rocks, and would have turned quietly back, for she had no wish to encounter anyone just then. But then she had noticed that the head bobbing upon the dark water was golden. Blonde hair being almost as rare on the island as the fiery locks that crowned many of Llyr’s royal line, curiosity made her pause and look harder.

She had felt no shame, only a little amusement at the subsequent realization that she was staring at a grown man paddling about in the altogether — a common enough practice for the island’s inhabitants, though usually conducted in areas separated for the respective sexes. She had noted the net slung over his shoulder and guessed at his activity, aware of the proliferation of shellfish that clung to the rocks he was picking around. When he stood, he was in waist-deep water…mostly…baring to the world a trim, broad chest and sun-browned arms; so much she could see from that distance…and then he’d looked up and seen her watching.

Angharad had known instantly that he was not of Llyr. Any of her subjects would have recognized her by rumor alone, and a man, upon doing so, would have fallen upon his knees at being caught in such a predicament. That this one did not was so novel she forgot to be indignant…but she also did nothing, though she could have, to stop the breaker that had knocked him over.

He’d risen up much nearer, spluttering and struggling, tossing his wet curls back from his face with a gasp. Altogether the sight was more intriguing than she had expected, and she had acknowledged frankly to herself that though she had little basis for comparison, this particular male creature, in this particular state, was… pleasant to look upon. She had toyed with the idea of standing there until he was forced to come out for his clothes; it wouldn’t take too long; the water was cold and he was no longer in a position to swim to keep warm. But he was close enough now for her to read his expression, a mixture of awed embarrassment and forlorn frustration, and her better nature had prevailed and pitied him. Not enough to leave, that he might emerge from the water without a witness, but enough to permit him to salvage his pride.

Confident and without self-consciousness she had approached him with his garments, prepared to accept nervous thanks, embarrassed apologies, the awed amazement to which she had grown accustomed as her birthright, owed her by the common people of her island, the deferent men who acknowledged the authority of their matriarchs. Prepared to welcome him as a princess should. And he had looked up, straight into her face.

He looked her in the eyes.

For this, she was not prepared.

Angharad could name the men with whom she’d had eye contact in her entire nineteen years in a matter of seconds. Only members of a royal family, visiting nobility, and the Chief Steward were afforded the honor of so addressing a Daughter of Llyr. A common man who dared it - barring a boy too young to know better or a foreigner not yet educated - was swiftly disciplined, though the legendary punishment of putting out the offender’s eyes had not been practiced for generations, if it ever really had been. Many of those permitted the privilege used it with an air of formality they deemed suitable to the gravity of the circumstances…a gravity that Angharad often found tiresome, but accepted as a matter of course.

She had no name for the sensation that jolted through her when the stranger raised his direct gaze to hers — a vivid, joyful gaze as blue as the summer sky, as the forget-me-nots that clustered in the shady hollows of the castle garden. Her heart seemed to stop for an instant and then thunder back to life, her spirit riven by a shock akin to the foaming smack of the breaker that had carried him in. She thought dazedly that she ought to be offended, outraged; ought to at least inform him of his error. But she was not, and did not.

Awed he certainly was, admiration and wonder writ plainly on his face, but his expression had none of the deference or formality she always saw in men’s faces, and when she had spoken to him he had laughed - laughed! As though it were all a merry jest between two friends. And instead of being affronted she had wanted to laugh as well.

She had hidden it. Veiled her astonishment and confusion under a practiced mask of serene authority, the self-possession that was bred and built into every heir of the crown. To show one’s true thoughts was to let down one’s guard - especially to a stranger. Kingdoms had fallen over untoward moments of vulnerability, and she had been trained to give nothing away until bonds of trust had a chance to forge…and even then, to be wary.

His courtesy had impressed her; within moments of his speaking she knew he was no fisherman, shepherd or farmer out for a day’s leisure. But his explanations made her incredulous. A storyteller, indeed - as though it were possible to live on such a thing. Even bards sometimes found their skills less in demand than they ought — how did a man without their status manage? Of course he did say he’d picked up other skills from the Rovers, who were adept at surviving on little, from what she knew.

He had a knack for story, to be sure, and a gift for performing. That trick with the shells had been a pretty and skillful bit of illusion — one she would have admired more had she not been so helplessly incensed by his words. Angharad flushed, thinking of her reaction — that had been letting her guard down, indeed; what could she have been thinking? For that matter, how on earth had she let a mere man’s flippant disregard for his own status and title upset her so much?

“Fancy just leaving because you got tired of a place,” she mused out loud again to Tan. “It seems rather…I don’t know. Irresponsible. If Mother offered a position to the son of a servant, and he refused it…she’d call that ingratitude. But then, it’s rather hard to be expected to do something just because it’s what your parents did.” She sucked at her teeth, and shoved away the thought _I should know_ before it could take root _. “_ At least the people have other choices. Fisherfolk can turn to farming. Shepherds apprentice their children out to tradesmen. But still…to run off and be nothing in particular…it’s odd.”

She refused to entertain the unthinkable idea that she might envy his freedom.

The sun was sinking below the western horizon when she entered the castle gates. Grooms flanked her instantly, preparing to lead Tan to the stables while Angharad gave direction in regards to the contents of the saddlebags. She found herself looking twice at the faces of the men who did her bidding, faces she often did no more than glance upon, and wondering whether they were happy in their lot; if, given the choice, any one of them would leave.

“Mabon,” she said suddenly. The head groom paused, his worn hand light on Tan’s bridle. “How is your wife? I hear Mother ordered her to go straight to Ellyna.”

“Aye, milady.” Mabon stood quietly, his eyes focused down and slightly to her right. “She was very ill, but she is recovering under the healer’s care.” He crossed his wrists over his heart and dipped his head to her. “She was too stubborn to admit to it. We’re all that grateful for her Majesty’s stepping in.”

“Are you managing all right? Does the baby need a nurse while she’s gone?”

He smiled, his lined face creasing, and she thought wistfully how much more satisfying it was to see a smile reach a man’s eyes. “Gwynedd is weaned now, but I thankee, milady. Our Tesni is caring for the younguns and running the household too. She’s a smart one.”

“I shall arrange for extra help.” Angharad shouldered her leather pouch of ormer briskly. “Tesni shouldn’t be missing her training to wash dishes and mind little ones. Mabon,” she added slowly, “does she _want_ to train horses? Or is there anything else she’d like to try?”

Mabon hesitated, in obvious surprise; she saw his eyes wander toward her and then quickly away. “She loves the horses, milady. She’s worked ‘em with me since she could walk ‘neath ‘em without stooping over. I don’t reckon she’s ever thought of doing anything else.”

“All right, then,” Angharad said, feeling rather ambivalent. Was it any use to ask? She couldn’t go about asking every servant in the castle if they were happy with their lot, could she? And if they weren’t - what could she do about it, for goodness’ sake? Why was it even in question? Drat that Geraint, anyhow. Just because one man had decided to forsake all loyalty and forge out on his own didn’t mean everyone wanted to break their ties to respectability, nor should they.

Frowning to herself, she dismissed Mabon, and escaped to her own rooms, after dropping the ormer off in the kitchens to be cleaned.

Elen was there when she entered her chamber, laying out her nightshift and turning down her bedclothes, and came skipping over. “There you are! I’ll call for your bath. You missed supper — shall I send for something?”

“No.” Angharad waved her away, and sat to pull off her boots. “I nicked a loaf and cheese from the kitchen for later. Not hungry now.”

"Hmph.” Elen snatched her bundled cloak and unwrapped the stolen food in it. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. It’s all crumbs everywhere. How was the beach? Did you find what you wanted?”

“I found…what we needed,” Angharad faltered, strangely reluctant to say more. She had already determined to say nothing of Geraint to her mother. The queen would be incensed over such familiarity as he had shown her, and demand that he be brought to the castle to give an account of himself. And while he had done nothing truly wrong and need fear no ill-treatment, Angharad somehow did not like the idea of his being subjected to Regat’s scrutiny. Moreover she would have far less opportunity to satisfy her curiosity regarding him if he were here at the castle, for he had been correct in predicting that the ease between them out in the cove would be impossible to maintain here in her home. How ironic, she thought, with a grimace, that here where her authority was second only to her mother’s, she should be so much less…herself.

Servants had brought in the big wooden tub, lined in a linen sheet, and were hurrying in and out with buckets of hot water. Elen, returning from giving orders down the hall, fussed at her back while unlacing her tunic. “Hair’s salty and you didn’t braid it. I knew you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, well, I shouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Disappointment’s one thing. Pleasant surprises are another,” the girl sniffed. “But I hope it was worth it. Missing council and all…though I’m sure you don’t regret that.”

“I don’t. What did you do all afternoon?”

“Weaving. Eilwen was there and asked about you. She was full of stories from the grove. Those new initiates are kicking up a rumpus. You’d think Rhiannon would choose a soberer bunch for acolytes. But a goddess will have her mysteries.” Elen paused to place her cupped hand, the symbol of the crescent moon, briefly in the hollow of her breast - a gesture of divine devotion rather belied by her sardonic grin.

Angharad returned both gesture and grin. “Is it the initiates that are the problem, or the boys that aren’t officially allowed in the grove but seem to get in anyway?”

“Oren, you mean,” Elen snorted, folding up her discarded robes and handing them off to a maid as Angharad slid into the tub. “He’s part of it. Mind you, the girl doesn’t discourage him. She’s just as keen. If she makes it to novice it’ll be a flat miracle.”

Angharad yawned, soothed by the hot water, and ignored Elen’s chatter, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to discuss the inconsistent whims of a fertility goddess who demanded abstinence from her own acolytes. She settled back with a sigh until the water closed over her chin, tasting the salt that seeped from the fluid swirl of her hair into the tub. It flowed, languid, over her skin, both asking and answering some voice within her…a silver chime just beyond the edge of hearing. A long breath, held, and she sank serenely beneath the surface.

Light and shadow ghosted behind her shut eyes, the aura of a current of power that flowed around and within her, filling her with a profound sense of well-being. The current throbbed with every pulse of her slowed heartbeat; she listened to it, detached, unconcerned. The sweet, liquid taste of magic filled her mouth like wine; magic warm and fluid and embracing until she could not tell the difference between it and the water or her own body; they were all one and the same.

It was this experience she had gone to the coast to find, one frustratingly denied by the presence of a stranger. Of course the sea was different; the power inherent in its cold embrace left her breathless and wild-eyed, filled her with an elated energy almost dangerous in its intensity. Freshwater was soothing, comforting, soporific…what she needed more now, perhaps, after such a strange, unsettling day; but still, she craved the sea. A few minutes paddling about collecting shellfish was a poor substitute for this bliss.

The garbled sound of a voice coming from outside the water interrupted her thoughts and she opened her eyes to see Elen peering at her rather impatiently over the edge of the tub. “Determined to drown yourself again,” the girl observed, and Angharad would have laughed, if one could laugh underwater. She surfaced, steaming in the firelight, and submitted to being scrubbed.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Elen said presently, working away with an oiled comb at the tangled masses of her hair. “You all right?”

Angharad chewed her bottom lip, pondering the urge to tell Elen - whose position as lady-in-waiting was as much friend and confidante as servant - everything. She _wanted_ to tell her, felt that somehow recounting the day’s events to another human would help her make sense of her thoughts. But instead, she said, “Elen. If you weren’t my lady-in-waiting, what would you be?”

Elen’s hands stilled in her hair. “Are you thinking of dismissing me?”

“No, no.” Angharad winced. “I didn’t mean…I just wondered. You were appointed to this place. Did anyone ask you if you wanted it? And did you ever wish for anything else?”

There was a tug at her head as Elen resumed her ministrations. “I hardly know how to answer that,” she said, after a long pause. “We were friends even before I was placed, and you know I would give my eyeteeth to make you happy. I’ve never thought of anything else.”

She sounded almost hurt, and Angharad reached up and squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I’m glad of it,” she said, “but I hope you’ll tell me if you’re ever not. I should hate for you to feel trapped.”

Elen snorted, but returned the squeeze. “That dunk in the sea’s got you all in your cups. There, now, out you get before the water gets cold.”

A few words of power having dried her as thoroughly as any bath sheet, Angharad wrapped herself in a quilt and curled into the seat before her narrow casement, pushing the frame open in defiance of Elen’s usual mutters about night air. She gazed out thoughtfully. Outside all was silver and black. The moon, a sliver of silver in the sky, grinned like a cat, capricious in her newness. The distant thunder of the surf washed over her, calling in its inexorable voice.

She wondered, almost against her own will, what Geraint was doing, and if he really would stay the whole summer.


	5. Chapter 5

_She lapped_

_against the shore,_

_restless like_

_the sea,_

_ready_

_for any adventure,_

_that blew along_

_her way_

~Atticus

* * *

Chapter Five

Days rolled by like cartwheels, bumping over stones, the usual routines somewhat interrupted with distracting thoughts of recent experience. Court was held twice a week, Angharad assisting with the doling out of justice or mercy as necessary; Regat passed more and more of such decisions onto her, mindful of the day they would be hers alone to make. Alternate mornings were spent studying legal records and conferring with their counselors, arranging certain matters of the household Regat had delegated to her, or preparing herbs and implements needed for spellwork. But her afternoons were hers to spend as she pleased, and every seventh day was a day of rest, by law.

This particular one dawned misty and grey after a night of rain, the sort of day she would normally have curled up by her own hearth and read, or sat in the solar playing tawlbrdd with Elen and the other ladies, or worked at her embroidery — not because weather bothered her particularly; she liked the moods of grey sky, the way mist shrouded the familiar land around her in mystery — but because quiet activities seemed cozier, somehow, on grizzly days.

But she did not feel cozy at present. The restlessness that had driven her to the cove before had only increased since her visit there, made even worse by the flurry of activity that was currently surrounding the departure of her cousin. Teleria and the baby had been deemed strong enough to return home, and Angharad and Elen were to accompany her to the harbor, along with her bevy of handmaidens.

Teleria, naturally, talked all the way there, issuing imperious commands and anxious admonishments from the middle of a nest of cushions on a litter born by four men. She bounced baby Rhun at her breast, having refused to have him carried by a nursemaid. During one of her endless lamentations Elen leaned toward Angharad from her adjoining horse to whisper, “Exactly how are you related again?”

Angharad covered her mouth and coughed, to mask her laugh. “Third cousin, once removed, I think. But I’d have to check the records to know for sure.”

The small ship from Mona was docked and waiting, with Prince Rhuddlum himself there to greet them. He came down the gangplank, beaming, as the litter bearers lowered their vocal burden to the ground; Teleria handed Rhun to one of her ladies and was helped to her feet. Angharad and Elen dismounted and stood back courteously as the young couple embraced. Teleria glowed pink as a sunset as the baby was transferred to her husband.

“Keep the blanket - oh, mind his head, dearest, he can’t hold it up yet! - around him, so he doesn’t catch a chill,” she cooed. “Gracious, it’s all right, you won’t break him - look here, my love, he has your nose and your chin. Isn’t he perfectly beautiful?”

Rhuddlum held the baby a bit gingerly, but his round face flushed scarlet with pleasure and pride, contrasting with his pale blond hair and beard in a way that made him look rather silly. But Angharad did not laugh; it was too sweet a moment, and she watched with a strange, twisting sensation in her chest. Teleria might be ridiculous in many ways, but still, there was sacredness in the scene; in the mystery and power of this: the gift of woman to man and to all, to be the vessel of new life. It was to this end, all of it: the rites and the goddess, the ripening and the waning of their bodies in rhythm with each moon, each nestled within the circle of the seasons of a year; years set within the circle of generations, in an endless spiral. Next to her, Elen sighed, her hand cupped in a crescent at her breast.

The prince looked up and noticed her, and Angharad stepped forward to greet him. “Well met, cousin. Congratulations.” Rhuddlum made a move as if to embrace her, but his hands were full of baby; she laughed, took him by the shoulders and kissed both his cheeks.

“Well met, indeed,” Rhuddlum answered, “and many thanks for your care of my own. It was a great weight off all our minds, to have the princess in such good hands.” He looked past her, his eyes darting about expectantly, and she guessed his thoughts.

“The queen sends her regards,” Angharad assured him, “and her best wishes. She regrets having been unable to make them in person, but certain affairs required her attention at home. Be assured she was pleased to offer hospitality to our cousin in her need. The house of Mona is always welcome on Llyr.”

“If only all young mothers were so fortunate,” Rhuddlum said, looking slightly relieved, “to give birth among the midwives of Caer Colur. We are blessed by the alliance - and by our proximity. I hope you will grace us with a visit yourself soon.”

Angharad glanced at Teleria, still transcendent with happiness, and smiled a smile not altogether forced. “I am honored by the invitation. We shall see what may be done. Meanwhile…” she glanced at the grey sky. “You should be off, if you want to get back today. This weather will hold.”

“You believe so?” He looked, a little nervously, at the mist drifting across the water. “It looks like it might storm.”

Angharad shut her eyes, breathed slowly, felt the lightness in the air, the pull in the tides. “No. The fog will clear before you get halfway.”

“She’s always right about these things, dearest,” said Teleria breathlessly. “Oh, do let’s get home! I’ve missed it so!” Rhuddlum nodded, and strode away to give direction, then strode back, with a rather foolish grin, and handed Rhun back to Teleria. She giggled, and threw her free arm about her cousin. “Oh, Angharad, I _shall_ miss you! You must come visit me - oh, careful, darling, he’s got his hand all tangled in your hair - as soon as you can. Write to me, won’t you? I promise I’ll write back.”

“I will.” Angharad kissed her dutifully and bent over the baby, tracing his silky head and downy cheek. His rosy little mouth opened and groped toward her hand. “Be sure to tell me how he’s growing.” She knew that would be _all_ Teleria would tell her, but she had to say something.

In a flurry of kisses and fluttering garments Teleria was herded onto the ship with her ladies, and in a few more minutes it was pulling away from the dock, wood creaking, waves lapping at its belly, a backdrop to the shouts of men giving orders. The canvas sails unfurled and filled with air, and Angharad _felt_ the resistant swell of the water as the prow cut through it; it made her breathless, brought back her restlessness in a sweeping tide. She gazed after the departing ship with envy.

“Are we going to head back some time today?” Elen asked, having waited longer than she felt courtesy demanded.

Angharad clucked for Tan and gathered up the reins; they rode back through the harbor village, humming snatches of an old chanty they had overheard passing back and forth among the sailors at the dock. Men and women paused in their work to salute her, a few calling out blessings upon the royal house. Children ran past them with less formality, shrieking in pursuit of a dog; when they saw the ladies they crowded around, hoping for sweetmeats, which Angharad dutifully produced and scattered with a smile. A worldly-wise girl elbowed her small brother, a grubby, adorable urchin who could have been no more than four, commanding with great importance and an even greater lisp, “Don’t thtare at the printheth, Dylan; you’re a boy.”

Angharad sighed, and pretended not to hear. They left the village behind and rode without speaking for a time; Elen’s companionable ability of not needing to fill up a silence with speech was one of the reasons she was a favorite. “Elen,” Angharad said finally. “Do you ever wish you could sail off the island to somewhere else?”

Elen snorted. “First you ask if I really _want_ to be your lady-in-waiting. You’re a lark, lately. Why? Do _you_ wish it?”

“Sometimes.”

“But you’ve _been_ off. Didn’t you get your fill of the mainland? Miss the sea?”

“I did miss it,” Angharad admitted. “But get my fill of seeing the mainland, no. I could’ve stayed years and not seen it all. You can’t think how vast it is - the distances between things. The height of the mountains.” She thought wistfully of the Eagle, its stark, cloud-piercing summit. “I’d love to go back. But not only that. Sometimes…sometimes I’d love to sail west, away from everything, and on and on, into lands unknown.”

Elen looked at her as though questioning her sanity. “West is Eirin; that’s known all too well, stark-full of savages. Please tell me you’re not thinking of going _there_.”

Angharad sighed, realizing it was useless; Elen, practical and content with her station, could not fathom what she meant. “I’m not thinking of going anywhere,” she said flatly, “but I sometimes wish I _could_.”

“Don’t you love your island?” Elen asked, low, and Angharad reached for her hand, stung by the note of quiet betrayal in her voice.

“Of course I do,” she assured her staunchly. “Even could I sail to the edge of the earth, I would always come back. It’s not hating Llyr that makes me wish to go…it’s just…just wishing I had the choice,” she finished, a bit lamely. There were no words for what she felt, this twisting in two directions.

Elen squeezed her hand. “I think I know,” she said presently. “Sometimes a thing gets taken away before you knew you wanted it.”

That was it…or close enough. The castle gates materialized through the mist, and Angharad reined up, hesitating. Elen turned and looked back at her. “You’re not coming in?”

“I think I’ll ride out again.” She looked to the south, thought of the cove, wondering. “Do you mind?”

Elen shrugged, and drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “In this weather? Better you than me; I’m going to nap by the fire and pretend to sew. Shall I tell the queen?”

“Only if I don’t come back.” Angharad grinned sideways at her, and turned Tan toward the south. She wondered, a little, why she did it — she could have simply gone riding across the hills, satisfied her restless spirit with a wild gallop; gone on a hike through the woods to the east. But these things, though she loved them, were…familiar. And there was that, at the cove, which was new and curious and compelling. 

When she arrived, the shore and its green triangle of land were empty, and would have seemed deserted but for the faint scent of the smoke of a turf-fire, the blue-gray wisp of it that rose and mingled with the mist. Angharad picketed the horse to graze in the thick turf at the top of the hills, pulled several parcels from her saddlebags, and hiked down the slope, admiring the view. The gray sky made the green of the grass glow all the brighter in contrast; at the far end of the cove the sea rumbled softly, muted, its dark surface mottled with whitecaps until it melted into the mist.

The campfire was black and dead; the smoke she had seen was rising from the chimney of the hut. She knocked smartly on the door, which had undergone a significant amount of repair since she had seen it last, and called out,“Geraint of Gellau! Are you at home?”

There was noise of a sudden scrambling within, and the door rattled and scraped inward. Geraint stood in the opening, blinking in astonishment. He looked confused and rather rumpled, his golden curls unkempt and his face badly in need of a shave. “Princess?” he stammered out, and attempted a clumsy bow.

She chuckled, amused at this performance. “Did I wake you up?”

Geraint looked sheepish. “I’m afraid I was up rather late…tending to leaks.” He indicated the roof with a nod.“My thatching skills are passable, but…time and materials have been in short supply, and it’s a rather makeshift job.” He seemed to notice his disarrayed clothing for the first time, and hastily tried to straighten his tunic, so self-consciously that Angharad felt a little embarrassed for intruding on him.

“I can go, if you’d rather,” she offered.

“No, no,” he blurted hastily, “I’ve just…I don’t usually wake up to such…such prestigious and dignified company.” He grinned, and ran a brown hand through his tumbled curls, but if it was an attempt to tame them it had quite the opposite effect. She bit her lower lip to keep from laughing at the result.

“I brought food,” she said, holding up her parcels. “I thought perhaps you might be getting tired of shellfish by now.”

His eyes lit up. “Indeed! That is generous. Will you join me again, milady?”

“Gladly. I’ve been riding all morning, to the harbor and back, seeing a Mona cousin back off to her island, and I’m famished.” She handed him the packs, and seated herself once more on the rock that had made such a convenient perch.

“Ah,” he said, unwrapping the parcels and busying himself with the contents, “so there _are_ diplomatic relations then.” He pulled a loaf of bread from the pile and let out an exaggerated groan of delight, holding it to his breast as though it were a treasure. “ _Bread._ May the gods ever light your path, Princess of Llyr.”

“You’re welcome.” She laughed out loud, unexpected; no man had ever made her laugh until she had met him, and it felt strange, off-kilter somehow. “All the royal house of Mona is kin to us, one way or another. Family visits could be diplomacy of a sort, I suppose. But she was here to birth her child.”

Geraint nodded. “Ah, yes! Of course. The midwifery of Llyr is legendary. Never lost a mother or a babe.” He poked at his dead campfire with a stick in annoyance. “Blast that rain.”

Angharad grimaced. “If that’s what they say on the mainland, then it _is_ a legend. Even our midwives haven’t that much skill. But they _are_ the best. Deaths are rare.” Noticing his dilemma, she cleared her throat. “If you like, I can…”

He looked at her blankly; then his face changed to cautious curiosity as he remembered. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Should I stand back…Great Belin!” he yelped, as she motioned toward the wet coals and they erupted violently into flames, the residual raindrops sizzling off in a cloud of steam. He was silent for some time, looking rather askance from her to the fire and back again. Then he shook his head, and asked, “Have you always been able to do that? Is it like learning to walk, or something that has to be taught, like reading?”

Angharad shrugged. “A little of both, I suppose. We begin manifesting abilities in early childhood. They have to be channeled the right way or they can be fairly…destructive,” she chuckled ruefully. “But skills like throwing fire where you actually want it must be taught. They take concentration and focus at first, though after a while they become more or less second nature. Then there’s ritual magic. That’s another thing altogether, with layers of rules around it, specific circumstances surrounding each spell - times, moon phases, seasons, number of people involved - depending on what you’re trying to accomplish.”

“Fascinating,” he said, gazing at her raptly. She knew, somehow, that he was not speaking of magic, and looked away quickly, with an odd, fluttery sensation under her ribs.

“But you,” she said, turning to a safer subject, “you have skills as well, just as impressive in their way. That was a pretty trick last time, with the mussel shells. Where did you learn it?”

“Oh, that.” He was toasting cheese before the fire, spreading it on hunks of bread. “One of the men in the Rover band was an illusionist by trade, brilliant at it. He began teaching me a few things just for amusement, and when I proved to have a knack for it he kept on. After I had mastered all his tricks, I started to make up my own. It wasn’t until hearing a bardic recitation that I thought to put them together with stories, though.”

“Is that what you always do?”

Geraint nodded, and handed her his slate slab, topped with the smoking bread. “I found it was much more effective than the illusion alone. The bards know it, all their wisdom is based in it: story is how we frame reality; our past, our present, our hopes of the future; who we are; where we came from. A good story reaches past the mind and takes hold of the heart.” His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, twinkling at her, but his voice lowered, serious and earnest. “And when you have your listener’s heart, they will see whatever you want them to see.”

The low velvet of his voice made her feel oddly warm, and she shook it off with a toss of her head, remarking lightly, “That sounds like a dangerous amount of power, actually.”

“In the wrong hands, it could be,” he said, looking grave. “I have seen people believe stories that destroyed them, and those they loved.”

He was still standing, and she realized he was waiting for permission, and motioned for him to sit. They ate in silence. She pulled her feet upon the stone and wrapped her arms around her knees, gazing at him, and wondered, presently, why she did not get tired of doing so. One long curl at his forehead kept falling into his eyes; she felt an odd compulsion to reach out and push it back, and examined this impulse with some astonishment.

Geraint looked up and caught her watching, and she wondered, then, why she dropped her gaze, and why her breath was suddenly not _enough,_ when it most assuredly had been, a moment before.

“Do you…is this what you intend to do your whole life?” she asked after a moment, feeling a little flustered. “I mean…it seems so very…unmoored, traveling about alone, with no home and no kin. Don’t you get lonely? Do you never wish for a family?”

His eyes flickered once, with some strange, intense emotion she could not place, and her heart pounded wildly just for a moment, but the look was gone; he was staring into the fire instead, steady and calm. “I have never felt alone in my own company,” he said, in the manner of someone choosing words carefully. “I have met many in my travels, and rejoiced in many of the meetings. I have friends all over the land. But I have also enjoyed the beauty of the wilderness, and the freedom to make my own place in it, in ways I could not, were I not alone. But…” he took a breath, “It is possible that…at some point, I might find my solitude burdensome.”

Angharad felt a strange sense of disappointment, and scorned herself for being senseless; what on earth was his solitude to her? Let him live alone if that was what he liked; it wasn’t quite natural, perhaps, not what most people chose, but what of it? He was already rather different than most, from what she had seen; it should be no surprise that he was different in this aspect as well.

“Did you come back for more ormer?” Geraint asked, after a rather awkward silence. “I found more of it I can show you.”

“No,” she said frankly. “We have enough. I came back to see you.”

He blinked, and looked away, out toward the sea; she saw his throat move as he swallowed. “I see. I, uh…I am honored, then.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “It’s a first for me, to be thought worthy of a visit from a princess…just for my own sake.”

She thought of telling him he was more interesting than any of her usual diversions, and that she was curious about him, but this did not seem quite the thing, somehow, whether it were not the whole truth or simply impolite; she was not sure of either.

“Well,” she said instead, grinning at him. “You are, after all, a burden upon my hospitality, and I expect recompense. So then, storyteller, tell me a story. If I am pleased with it I shall consider the debt paid.”

Geraint’s eyes gleamed, and a slow smile spread across his face. She found herself thinking, distractedly, about how straight and beautifully white his teeth were, before he rose. “A moment, Princess, if I may.” Angharad watched curiously as he made his way around the camp; he bent several times to collect items from the ground; shells and pebbles, blades of grass and other oddments, pocketing them and returning to stand before her.

His entire demeanor had changed; he stood straight and tall, body tense as a bowstring, pulsing with an energy that seized her attention and held it. His eyes shone; his face flushed; he was _captivating._

“This,” he began, “is the tale of a wandering bard…”


	6. Chapter 6

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

~Robert Frost

* * *

Chapter Six

_“Angharad!”_

Her mother’s voice cut into her mind like a dagger. Angharad blinked, remembering that she was at supper. Elen, who had already kicked her twice under the table, was now glaring at her in exasperation over its top.

“I’m…sorry,” Angharad stammered. “What is it? I wasn’t listening.”

Regat laid her wine goblet down with the painstaking gravity of one who intended to make a point by the gesture. “Have you heard a word since we began? I asked whether you have gathered the implements for tonight.”

“Oh.” Angharad cleared her throat. “Yes. The ormer’s been cleaned, the sweetgrass is dried. There’s enough for tonight.”

“Indeed,” put in Arianrhod, smiling at her from the other end of the table, a softer mirror of the queen. Though only two years younger than her sister, Arianrhod was comparatively unmarked by signs of age; her dark hair did not bear the silver that streaked Regat’s proud head, and the lines around her grey-blue eyes were fine and shallow; the life of High Priestess, though full, was easier and far more pleasant than that of a queen. “I looked it over this morning. All is ready. Though I still think you should wait.”

Regat waved this away. “We’ve discussed this. New moon might be preferable for scrying, but too much is at stake. We need to know what is behind the troubles, if anything; I dare not put it off another fortnight.”

Angharad smoothed her skirts nervously under the table. “What is it? Is this because of the message from Abegwy yesterday?”

Regat sighed. “There is a strange illness there that looks as though it will spread. The village is cut off until we know for certain.”

“More ill news,” Angharad muttered. She pressed her hands to her temples. “Did you send that emissary you promised to Llamorset?”

“Of course.” Regat took a breath as though she meant to say more, paused, and closed her mouth, looking away as though preoccupied. She folded her linen slowly and rose, signifying the end of the meal. “I shall retire,” she announced, “to rest and prepare for the ritual. You should do the same.” Angharad watched her leave the chamber in silence, trailed by her two ladies-in-waiting.

 _“Where have you been?”_ Elen hissed at her, when the door had shut. “You really didn’t hear a thing, did you?”

Arianrhod raised an eyebrow in agreement. “You have seemed rather preoccupied, love. Is everything all right?”

Angharad felt her face grow hot. Her own self-consciousness annoyed and perplexed her; why should a simple question discomfit her so much? Perhaps it was that knowing look in her aunt’s eyes, glinting at her over the rim of her chalice; Arianrhod took an embarrassing level of interest in the personal lives of everyone in court and out of it, and had a knack for sniffing out romantic entanglements. Understandable, given her line of expertise, and Angharad knew the sort of conclusion to which her aunt would immediately jump. And though she had nothing of the kind to hide, visions of Geraint _would_ keep pushing themselves into her mind, something she knew Arianrhod would find intensely interesting. Confound him and that direct blue gaze of his. She could not stop thinking about it. _Why_ could she not stop?

“I’m _fine,_ ” she huffed, tossing her napkin to the table, “but all this trouble has me worried, just like mother.”

“Is that why you wanted to be up sparring at sunrise?” Elen demanded. “Waking me up and dragging me out just to knock me down a dozen times? You can’t beat back plague and earthquakes with a staff, you know.” She rubbed her shoulder, wincing.

“No, but it made me feel better,” Angharad growled, resisting an urge to throw a hunk of bread at her, as she would have when they were younger. Elen, like all able-bodied Llyrian nobility, was competent at various forms of weaponry and self-defense, but she complained incessantly when Angharad insisted on training together, and rarely extended herself to her full abilities. Angharad herself was not immune to the amusement of the quieter hobbies that Elen preferred, but she found physical activity cathartic. Particularly this morning.

Arianrhod leaned back in her chair, looking at her levelly. “Hm. Finding yourself with a bit of extra energy, are you? Even after your excursions yesterday?”

There she went again. “It’s full moon,” Angharad pointed out flatly. Elen rolled her eyes, but Arianrhod shrugged, a sly grin playing upon her pretty mouth.

“True enough. And you’re young. I remember how that felt,” she sighed. “Well, save your strength for tonight. I’ll join you both at sundown.”

Elen signaled for the servants to clear as Arianrhod departed. “There’s something you’re not saying,” she stated, looking put out. “I can tell. But have it your way. Are you going up?”

Angharad had always confided in Elen, in all things; now she cringed internally with a sense of betrayal. “Yes, but not to sleep. I’ve got laws to look over. You needn’t come up if there’re things you’d rather do. Unless you _want_ to hear about the precedence for judgement on pillaging accusations.”

“Was that what all the commotion in the Hall was about this morning? As fascinating as it sounds, I think I’d rather be in the kitchens,” Elen said, rolling her eyes. “It’s pie day tomorrow, you know. I’ll sneak some up to you later.”

Angharad made her way to her chamber alone, not without a sense of relief. It had been a long morning involving a particularly obstreperous court. Sea-raiding was one of the few capital crimes on the island, condemned both for its own unethical ends and for the the blight it made of them in the sight of the neighboring kingdoms it victimized; it was unnecessary, inflammatory, and had never been tolerated under the rule of the Daughters of Llyr. But once in a generation or so some rogue with a wandering eye tried to make a name for himself and was met with swift justice. The accusations made in this case had, thankfully, turned out to be unsupported. Regat’s skillful handling of the matter had been satisfying to watch, but when it came to sentencing the accuser for the serious crime of false accusation, she had turned the task over to Angharad, who had found herself floundering with an unfamiliar and unsettling loss of decisiveness. She had rallied within a few anxious moments, delivering an appropriate outcome, but the queen had been displeased with her hesitation and ordered her to review the relevant law.

Angharad plunked herself onto the seat by her casement, a pile of parchments in hand, and tried to concentrate on the legalities recorded therein, laws dating all the way back to the arrival of the Sea People upon the island from regions hazy and unknown; histories recording the building of their swift, light watercraft and the victories over the larger, clumsy warships of their neighbors; the truces and alliances made and enforced as their power grew; the decrees decrying the practice of plundering and looting and carrying-off of women and children as the barbarism it had been; the laws set in place to prevent and punish such atrocities and the recordings of the cases that had enforced them. History was always bloody, theirs as much as anyone else’s; it turned her stomach, and she sighed and looked out the window, frowning.

History, legend; how much of it was even accurate? The scribes said if it was written it must be true; the bards said truth was not something that could be written but must be held in the heart. She wasn’t sure she believed either of them; after all, she could take up a quill this minute and scribble _a gull just flew through my window, dropped a fish in my lap and said hello_ at the bottom of one of these parchments, and laugh at what future generations would make of it. As for the bards…

Her breath slowed and mellowed; the documents slid from her fingers to the floor, forgotten, as she gazed at the early evening sky with eyes that did not see it.

 _When you have your listener’s heart, they will see whatever you want them to see._ What she saw were pebbles and shells disappearing behind quick, skilled fingers; flowers blooming as though magically at their tips; white teeth bared in a sunshine smile; golden curls tumbling about his brow as he bowed; mirth-filled blue eyes twinkling at her from beneath them.

_“Is my debt paid, Princess of Llyr?”_

_“Yes.”_

A whisper, breathless, beyond thought.

_“Oh, yes.”_

* * *

The moon swung, a white pearl, directly overhead, full and ripe, with no shred of cloud to mar its milky surface. Its soft silver light bathed the three women standing upon the tallest tower of Caer Colur.

"Blessed Rhiannon. Look how she smiles on us,” Arianrhod declared with satisfaction, her hand crescented at her breast. She looked benevolently down at the view; the sleeping island, dark under the stars. “Many healthy children will be conceived tonight.”

Angharad let out an awkward sigh, catching her mother’s amused glance. The outspokenness of her aunt on subjects arguably left better to the imagination had been a topic of heated discussion between them more than once. It was, of course, Arianrhod’s jurisdiction to be concerned with all matters pertaining to the fertility of the island and its people - but even so. Everyone over the age of twelve knew what the full moon portended. _Must_ it be announced like a tournament?

“It will be little cause to celebrate,” Regat said, “if we cannot make their home safe for them. Come.” She motioned her daughter to stand with her at the center of the tower, where an altar stood waiting, incense of smoldering sweetgrass rising from the pearly ormer shells arranged around its jeweled rim. Arianrhod stepped forward, an ancient, leather-bound book in her hands, and placed it upon the pedestal in the center. Regat opened the worn covers. “Angharad, the Pelydryn.”

The princess palmed the cool weight of the small golden sphere she kept in her pocket, and pulled it out. In her hands it flared into light - warm and golden, bouncing sparks off the silver implements on the altar, glittering in the strands of her unbound hair. The pages of the book, apparently blank until now, suddenly crawled with ink: the sprawling lines of written symbols, the flare of colorful figures in the margins, depictions of flora and fauna both imagined and referenced, marching up and down. Angharad set the glowing sphere upon a silver stand and stepped back.

Regat turned the pages deliberately, alternating each flick of parchment with graceful movements of her slender hands. Pearls and opal set in silver rings glittered on her fingers as they twisted in space, tracing symbols upon the air. Angharad watched, with silent respect. Though they disagreed on much, she could never but admire the queen’s grace and skill, in magic as much as in magisterial responsibilities.

Her skin prickled, downy hair rising on her arms, as the familiar sense of power rose around them, flowing from the stones under their feet, condensing from the air. It burned in her mouth, both hot and sweet, two forces intermingled, and she shut her eyes, allowing it to wash through her. Light and dark threads twisted together; fire and water in union, and she mentally adjusted the strands, melding them here and separating there, that neither might have dominance, even as each sought to consume the other.

Regat found the page she wanted, and stepped to the side so that Angharad might stand directly before the book. The women joined hands — there must always be three — and the current of light and dark ebbed and flowed amongst them.

The princess opened her eyes and glanced over the page; a familiar enough scrying spell, one she knew by heart, but it was prudent to have a reference to fall back upon. Rituals were unpredictable, and a slip of a tongue caught off-guard could have disastrous consequences.

The images on the page seemed to writhe at the edges of her vision, distracting, as though at any moment they would slither away. She willed herself to look only at the written words, and began to read out loud.

The words were old, in a strange tongue now taught only to those in her line; they burned in the mouth, heavy like solid stones, smooth like sips of wine. Around them, between them, magic crackled and flamed and surged; the queen and priestess stood with closed eyes and bowed heads, keeping it in balance, waiting for whatever it had to show them.

The spell wavered before Angharad’s eyes, as though she saw the book through water; the pages turned black and the figures upon it stood out, lurid against the dark. Her heart raced. Wrong; it was all wrong…

The faces of the creatures seemed to leer out, snarling; then they leapt upon and devoured one another, and the spoils of their carnage turned to a sickly miasma that drifted across her line of vision, obscuring it. She gripped tighter the hands that gripped hers back as the world seemed to shift dizzily beneath her feet, and the pestilence spread into the outer edges of her vision, blinding her. Her words went on, though she no longer knew she spoke them; her ears were full of a roaring as of the fires in the very belly of the earth. The darkness was broken suddenly by livid red light; lines of flame ran, like a profane river and its tributaries, across the darkness of the land below. The lines grew, sending out rivulets and streams, breaking apart the solid earth until it crumbled into bits, and the flames merged until she stared into a gaping pit of fire. Writhing black shapes twisted within it, shrieking, and she would have shrieked herself, had she any breath. But for breath one must have a body, and her mind was untethered, lost over a void, over chaos.

And then the fire was rent asunder by a thundering, pounding wall of water, a cresting wave that obliterated everything in its path; it swept over the fire and quenched it, and steam rose up in blinding clouds, but when it cleared there was nothing. Nothing but darkness and silence, a silence so thick it was like a solid thing, pressing on the ears, and suddenly she realized once more that she had ears, and hands which were being wrung painfully by other hands. She opened her eyes with a gasp, and the light of the Pelydryn flashed and died.

They were on the tower roof, and the moon swung overhead, silent and still and beautiful. Yet now its play of silver light and shadow made the faces of her elders into terrifying masks.Both wore expressions of mute horror, the like of which she had never seen, their naked emotion a mirror of her own.

Arianrhod dropped the hands of her sister and niece and sank to the cold stone with a keening cry. Angharad backed against the battlements, mouth dry. “Mother.” It came out in a hoarse whisper. Regat did not look at her. “Mother, what was it?”

The Queen of Llyr reached out with a trembling hand and shut the spellbook, its pages blank once more. Her face was white and drawn; she swayed, knocking over the silver stand that held the Pelydryn; the golden sphere bounced to the flagstones and rolled to Angharad’s feet.

“The quakes?” Angharad gasped, and her mother turned her dark eyes upon her, dull and full of dread.

“It must be. Fire under the stone, tearing it apart.”

“Can nothing be done?” Angharad stooped to retrieve the Pelydryn; its cold weight in her hand steadied her and she clutched it to her breast. Her fear was burning under a wave of anger. “Is it natural, or an attack?”

“No,” Regat breathed. “No, this is calculated. Some of it may be natural, but to be so calculated…the pestilence, the terrors. This is a siege, already underway. But who? Who would dare it?”

They stared at each other, stunned, speechless. Arianrhod stirred, and looked at Regat warily. “Did you…recognize anything in it?”

Regat shot her a quick, quelling look. “There was a signature. I know your thoughts. But it is impossible. She no longer has that kind of power.”

Angharad looked from her mother to her aunt. “She?” Her heart sank. There was only one _she_ , beyond the line of Llyr itself, who had ever been capable of such work. “I thought Achren—”

“This is not Achren’s doing,” Regat said sharply. “It is not possible. She lives yet — so much, I know. And power she has still. But not to this extent. And she has no reason to attack us. Even when she ruled, Llyr had no quarrel with her.”

“Perhaps we ought to have,” Angharad muttered under her breath, but it was futile to conjecture; Achren had been deposed from the throne of Prydain over a century ago, and none of the matriarchs of Llyr yet lived who could explain why they had turned their faces away from her infamously bloodthirsty rule over their neighbor. Their histories recorded her distantly, as one might write a moral tale for children, designed to warn both against a lust for power, and trust in any man.

“Who dares it?” Arianrhod echoed Regat in disbelief. “And why? We have no enemies.”

Angharad stood up straight, shakily. “If it’s a new threat, we should warn our allies.”

“Our allies,” Regat returned, in a grim voice, “may be the trouble.”

The princess turned upon her, aghast. “King Math would _never_. Mother, you shame yourself.”

“You trust the Sons of Don too much,” Regat said coldly, “but you mistake my meaning. Math is not behind this. He has no notion of subtlety — like most men. When he wants something he sends a war band to the front gate, not magicians to the back door.”

“None wield this level of power but Dallben,” said Arianrhod.

Regat shook her head. “Unthinkable. None of that bore his mark, and he has always desired peace. But there is one other, both with the power to wield and the will to destroy.”

“You speak of Arawn,” Angharad said, cold dread creeping up her spine at the name and its implications. “But why?”

“Because it is his way to take what he can and destroy what he cannot,” the queen answered, “and because we are allied with those who tore him from his throne. Destroying us could be his way of tightening the noose around the House of Don. Math has always warned us to be wary of him.”

“Can we know for certain?” Angharad whispered.

Regat was silent. Somewhere below, an owl hooted.

Finally the queen took up the spell book with a hand that no longer trembled. Her face was white and set, and Angharad shivered at the sight; her mother looked, she thought, like someone who knew she was headed to her own execution. “There may be a way. I must think in private.”

“Will you inform the council?” Arianrhod asked.

“Not yet.” Regat looked at them both severely. “Say nothing of this to anyone. I will not have the people thrown into a panic.”

“But they should be warned,” Angharad blurted out, shocked. “If what we saw should come to pass — Mother, they must be warned. We could evacuate all to the mainland; send to the Sons of Don for aid and they would not refuse to give the people sanctuary.”

 _“No,”_ Regat said again, turning on her. “We know nothing as yet, and I will not disrupt the peace of this island, nor throw ourselves on the charity of men without grave cause.”

“The danger of thousands dead looks like grave cause to me,” Angharad retorted. “How can you think of entertaining even the possibility? What peace is there to disrupt? Already we have lost lives. Even if we stop this, it cannot but grow worse before it improves.” She flung her hands out over the land, the sleeping green hills and the people sleeping among them. “You would allow your contempt of men to put your people in danger? _They trust us._ ”

“Be silent!” The queen straightened to her full, impressive height, her dark eyes flashing dangerously. Angharad bit back her fury at this admonishment, unheard in years, but she stood and faced her mother, every bit as tall, unflinching. Arianrhod rose to stand between them, holding up her hands placatingly.

“The danger is not immediate, Angharad,” her aunt said, low and measured. “What we saw was a possible future — one of many. And we have been given warning. Let us be thankful for it. Now that we know, we may act. Evacuating the island would disrupt our way of life in a way that would take years, perhaps more, to recover, even if we ever were able to come back at all — it is a last resort.” She looked gravely at Regat. “But one we must consider, should the situation worsen. What is your plan?”

The queen took a breath, long and deliberate. “We shall shore up what we can. Magic can be fought only with magic, and it has been long since we were obliged to fight. Keep the grove fires burning, day and night, and your girls at their rites.” She frowned in annoyance. “No more of this nonsense between your son and that new initiate. We need every voice and every hand.”

Arianrhod looked sheepish, cleared her throat and nodded. “I shall attend to Oren. Shall I tell Eilwen?”

Regat hesitated at mention of her second daughter. “Not yet.”

“We may need her.”

“She is often indiscreet. I will tell her myself if necessary.”

“Very well,” Arianrhod sighed, looking a little defeated. Angharad, knowing the difficulty of hiding anything from her sharp, insatiable younger sister for very long, pitied her.

The princess dared to return to an unwelcome subject. “Will you send word to Math for aid?”

“What can he do?” Regat demanded scornfully. “This threat cannot be met with a sword, and that is all he knows.”

“He should be warned,” Angharad insisted. “A threat to us is a threat to Prydain. And Dallben might aid us as well.”

“True,” the queen admitted, “but it would be better to wait until we know for certain who is behind it. An alarm without useful information will only cause fear and distrust. A fortnight, Angharad. If what is in my mind is successful, I will know by new moon.” Her expression brooked no argument. “Then, if I deem it necessary, we will send word to them. Until then you will say nothing.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, binding. Angharad sucked her breath in slowly, held it while she counted to ten. “We’ll need more of everything,” Regat added. “Driftwood, sweetgrass, rosemary, blackthorn, nettle. Arianrhod, send out your girls. Angharad, you have a knack for finding the most potent supplies, and I know your fondness for the shore. Go as often as necessary. Do not let us run out. I will release you from council in the meantime. Court as well, if you must, though do try to be there as often as you can — only avoid the kind of weakness you displayed this morning.”

Angharad blinked, and let her held breath out all at once in surprise. The last hour’s turmoil had driven out the thoughts that had plagued her all day. Now they came rushing back like a tidal wave, the shock of it leaving her breathless. She nodded, gulping, and edged toward the stairwell; Regat noticed, and gave her leave to go with a wave of her hand.

She tumbled down the spiral steps blindly and ran along the corridors, not stopping until she came to her own chamber, shut herself inside and leaned heavily against the door, her heart pounding. The chamber was empty; Elen went home to visit her parents at full moon. Angharad was glad of it; she would not have been able to hide her agitation from someone who knew her as Elen did. 

Madness, this. It couldn’t be happening, _couldn’t…_

What could she do?

She _could_ defy her mother’s orders. Send word to the Sons of Don; Gwydion would take her seriously; would, in fact, be more than glad to be of aid. Her mother’s reluctance to rely on the strength of their primary ally was ridiculous. More than that: dangerous. And inexplicable.

But how on earth could she get any message to Gwydion without Regat’s knowledge? She dared not trust something so critical to any common sailor or merchant. It would mean sending an emissary, and the absence of one would be obvious; word might get back, somehow. Not that there weren’t bigger things at stake than being the target of her mother’s anger, but…

She paced the floor distractedly. Perhaps it _was_ best to wait until they knew more. Until she knew more about what the queen had in mind. What could she send in a message, after all? _Having visions of possible island destruction through magical attack; send help?_ What were any of them supposed to do with that?

Angharad sank onto her bed, and groaned out loud at the irony. She had just been given free rein to visit the cove as much as she pleased. She would see Geraint again, even sooner than…than she had hoped. Yes, she admitted frankly now, to herself. She had hoped for it.

And then she must tell him to leave.


	7. Chapter 7

_She was the ocean_

_and I was just a boy_

_who loved the waves_

_but was completely_

_terrified to_

_swim._

~Christopher Poindexter

* * *

Chapter Seven

She appeared, silently, at his left, as though she’d materialized right out of the water.

Geraint emitted a yelp of surprise; he was sitting on the hull of his overturned boat, dangling his bare feet in the glassy sheets of seawater that occasionally lapped up that far, engaged in disentangling a snarl of old fishnet to see what could be salvaged. Now he tumbled from his perch in almost clumsy haste to stand before her, bowing his head, wondering how it could be that she was even more beautiful than he had remembered. Even dressed as she was now, in short tunic, leggings and high-laced boots like a man, with her hair bound back from her face in heavy braids, she left him without breath.

“Well-met again, Geraint of Gellau,” she said. The sober note in her voice made him look up; her face was serious, expression veiled. The mischievous sparkle with which she had greeted him previously was gone.

“Well-met, indeed, milady,” he answered, wondering what could have happened. “I did not think to see you again this soon. It is an unexpected pleasure.” Her mouth twitched, but her eyes glinted gratitude, as though she knew his comment was a mere pleasantry but was pleased nonetheless.

“How are you faring?” she asked, and noticed the net. “Fishing decent?”

“Not with this.” He laughed and held it up, displaying its gaping holes. “I’m only salvaging what I can from it. Rope and twine are always useful. But yes, I’m getting on just fine. I went into the village again yesterday, and traded for certain necessities. My roof is leak-free now, look.”

She followed his point to look up at the old hut, crowned with a fresh roof of brown thatch, harvested from the hilltops. “Well done. That was quick work.”

“I never know when it’s going to rain again,” he said ruefully, “so that is strong motivation. What brings you back so quickly?”

“Our need for certain things only found at the shore is…urgent, at present,” she answered. “I’ve come to gather more. And to—” she paused, frowning, and looked away from him, toward the blue horizon, her gaze troubled. “To gather more,” she repeated, firmly, as though convincing herself.

“May I be of assistance?”

She looked as though she were about to say no, hesitated, and regarded him thoughtfully. “Perhaps. Not everything requires my specific skills.” There it was, a trace of the wry smile he had not stopped thinking about for two days. “You can collect driftwood for me, if you like.”

She should have every twig. There was, in fact, a sizable branch at his very feet, and he stooped, picked it up, held it up for her appraisal, and was rewarded when the trace of a smile grew into a real one. “More,” she said, amused. “Pile it up there, away from the water. As much as you can find.”

He hastened to perform the task, trying not to be too obvious about keeping an eye on her meanwhile. She left him piling the wood, made her way across the sand to the jutting cliff of black rock that bordered the cove and pointed like a decaying finger out to sea, and busied herself there - with what, he could not tell. Presently after a particularly long and productive haul, he looked up to see that she was halfway up the rock - over twice a man’s height from the ground - clinging precariously to its craggy surface as she reached with one hand toward a clump of grass growing in one of its many hollows.

Geraint threw the wood down with a cry and ran, instinct overriding thought; he threw himself upon the rough stone face and scrambled up after her, reaching out protectively just as she turned her face toward him. Her amazed expression halted him instantly.

“What are you doing?” she asked, in obvious astonishment.

He gulped, tried to breathe. “I…was going to ask _you_ that.” She looked blankly at him, and held up her free hand. Her fist grasped a silver sickle, a larger version of the pendant she wore, razor-edged.

“Cutting sweetgrass,” she explained, looking bemused. “It grows in cracks in the rocks, and we burn it as incense. Here, watch.” She swung out again, over empty space that made his head swim, to reach over and slice off another clump of the grass, catching it neatly in the same hand that held the sickle. Geraint, panicked, involuntarily grabbed her supporting arm to steady her.

She stiffened, and he realized, too late, by the jerk in her frame, that she would have thrown off his hand had she been able to move her arm. Her green eyes blazed at him and he let go, stammering. “I’m sorry. I thought…I didn’t…this seems dangerous.” He glanced past her to the ground; it looked lethally far away.

“What you just did,” she said drily, “was dangerous. This has been one of my duties since I was twelve. I have it more or less well in hand by now.” She shifted against the rocks, found a foothold and pushed herself higher. Geraint bit back a groan.

“I’m showing my ignorance, I know,” he admitted, looking away from the dizzying drop below, “but where I come from… ladies are not encouraged to scale cliff faces. Or anything at all. Forgive me for presuming you were in peril.”

“You presumed much, just now,” she said crisply, from above. “But you’re already breaking one law, so I suppose I can pardon you on one more as well.” He thought he detected a faint note of humor in her voice, and relaxed a little, though he still had to restrain himself from grabbing at the ankle that was now in front of his nose. He wondered what the penalty was for a common man to touch a Daughter of Llyr, and decided not to ask.

“What _do_ the ladies do where you’re from, anyway?” Angharad demanded, from above.

Geraint laid his face against the black rock, soaking in the coolness of it. “I suppose…well, it depends on who they are. I’ve known farmer’s daughters who could herd cattle, stack stone, and haul firewood alongside their brothers. And I’ve known noble ladies who could manage an entire castle and its lands while their husbands were away in battle.” He shook his head. “They’re not just sitting about tatting lace and embroidering cushions over there, you know.”

“Of course they aren’t,” she said, pulling her elbows onto a ledge. “It’s nice of you to notice. Though there’s nothing wrong with tatting lace and embroidering cushions, for that matter, if you enjoy that sort of thing.”Her scrambling legs disappeared over the edge, and for a moment he saw only waving grasses against the sky. Then her head appeared, haloed in gold in the sunlight; on her shadowed face he could faintly see the outlines of a smirk. “But they don’t climb. Or talk with men alone. Or even _walk_ _about_ alone, according to my cousin. Why?”

He thought for a moment, and started to answer when she added, “You _could_ come up here, by the way; it would make this conversation easier.”

Geraint scrambled up to the ledge, a turf-carpeted hollow which turned out to be wide enough for them both to sit comfortably, even when he gave her a respectful amount of space. He sat with his back to the cliff face, and looked out, admiring the landscape visible from this height, colors and textures spread beneath them like a moving, breathing tapestry. Angharad followed his gaze knowingly. “I don’t know why the view from above is always so much better,” she remarked, “but it is, no matter where you are.”

“I think it’s the excitement that comes from the possibility of plummeting to your death,” Geraint said, pulling his feet away from the edge. Angharad laughed —again, with that expression of surprise that she should do so, as though she were unused to laughing. It was a delicious sound.

“What a shame the ladies of your acquaintance so rarely get to experience it,” she prodded.

He frowned, thoughtful. “I don’t know. It never occurred to me any of them would _want_ to climb a cliff, even if they could. For the rest…it’s for their own protection that they aren’t allowed to roam alone. The world can be a dangerous place for them.”

“It can be dangerous for all,” she returned, “but _you’ve_ survived it.”

“But I’m a…” he paused, knowing what he was going to say would only lead him in circles. She was staring at him smugly, quite ready to tie him into his own trap.

“You know how to survive,” she said finally, after his silence spoke for him. “You’ve been taught some skills, learned others through experience, you’ve been challenged. If a woman were taught and challenged in the same way, she could be equally adept."

“Perhaps…some of them,” Geraint acknowledged, a little reluctantly.

She raised an eyebrow. “Is every man as skilled as the next? Or do some of _them_ occasionally die in those dangerous places?”

“Fair enough.” He grinned in spite of himself, then sobered. “But the death of a woman, if it could have been prevented, is a tragedy.”

“And a man’s is not?” She sounded mockingly surprised. “What a strange idea.”

“No, but…” he floundered a little. “But it’s…it’s our duty to protect the weaker.”

She snorted. “You think we are weak? You’ve never seen a child born. But all right. In general, yes - you are better built for some things. It does not follow that we should be forbidden even to attempt them. Do you forbid a boy to learn a skill simply because his brother is naturally more suited for it?”

“No,” he said. “But you must admit there are certain…certain risks you face…that men are far less likely to…” He broke off; she was glowering at him.

“That risk,” she said, in a voice that was almost a growl, “would be all but eliminated, did men truly honor women. But even where it will always be, we need not be completely powerless against it.” She looked at him quizzically. “Are your ladies not taught how to defend themselves?"

Geraint blinked in dismay; it seemed, suddenly, such an obvious thing; why wasn’t it done? “No,” he admitted. “It’s expected that their men will defend them.”

“As they should,” she answered, her eyes like green stones, “but if they fail? What happens to the women when their men are slain in battle, Geraint of Gellau?”

He made no answer, knowing it as well as she did. Angharad held his eyes a long moment, before turning her face away. He swallowed, and followed her gaze to the dark line on the horizon. The thunder of the surf, the wind whistling through the grasses, filled up the silence like music.

Finally she spoke again, quietly. “Do the legends say how Llyr’s island came to be ruled by his daughters instead of his sons?”

Geraint blinked, thrown off balance by this shift. “They…yes, they…” He cleared his throat, getting his bearings. “According to the legend…King Llyr Half-Speech and Penarddun his wife had four children - two daughters and two sons. And when the king died, his sons fought over the throne, dragging with them the entire country into war. Brother against brother, father against son, until the whole land was divided, and such was the battle fever that men forgot _why_ they fought, and even their women and children were slain by the sword until the very tides around the island ran red with blood. The barrow of Llyr Half-Speech was desecrated, his body cut in pieces and thrown into the sea, and his mother Rhiannon wept over his dishonor until her salt tears filled the bays and washed the blood away.”

He was almost chanting it, the words flowing; this was his element, his gift. He found himself glancing about for items with which to illustrate it, tucking away mental notes for later experimentation, until he noticed that Angharad was listening with her eyes shut, and then he could not look away from her.

“And the brothers were both of them slain, so that all their strife came to nothing but heartbreak and ruin,” he continued, softly. “Whereupon Penarddun and the daughters of Llyr refused to turn over the throne to any male kin, for, they said, it was men and their lust for power that had brought such destruction to the island. They blotted the names of the sons of Llyr from history, forbidding them to be spoken.

“And they called upon the blessing of Rhiannon, who, in fury over the desecration of Llyr, passed unto them the magic of the darkness, the moon and the tides, decreeing it should never be wielded again by any man, and it was added to the blessing of the lady Don, who had passed unto her daughter Penarddun the powers of light and fire. And with these gifts they ruled together, adding to the remnant of warriors the shieldmaidens of Llyr, who fought alongside them until the land was cleansed of everyone who dared rebel. Under their rule the land was healed, and the people flourished, and the sea gave up its treasures and secrets to them, until the beauty and peace and strength of Llyr were the envy of its neighbors.”

He stopped, more abruptly than he meant, dismayed at the shadow he saw in her face, the pain that creased her brow. She stirred, opening her eyes; they sparkled bright with unshed tears.

“It is a noble history,” he offered quietly.

She let out a wavering breath that seemed to come from her toes. “And probably full of half-truths, as most such legends are. But it’s as accurate a version as any I know, and you told it well.”

She gazed sadly out over the water. “The truth is we have become complacent. We’ve been immune from invasion so long that we have few land defenses. A small force for settling border skirmishes or petty uprisings is all that’s been necessary, and barely that, for such things are rare here. It’s convenient, for us, as our allies know the futility of asking us for troops. But the noble children of Llyr are still trained with sword and staff and shield - both sons and daughters. We have never forgotten what happens to women in war.”

“Why only the nobility?”

She cast him a rather rueful sidelong glance. “It ought to be everyone. But farmers and shepherds and fisherfolk find it difficult to spare their children for long, to learn a skill they believe is no longer necessary.” She shrugged. “For the most part, in their defense, it isn’t. We live in peace, and our men know what it is to honor women. For those who do not…” Her mouth curled into what looked disturbingly like a snarl.“The severity of the consequences serves to deter them.”

The contempt in her expression made him shiver. He tried to imagine her holding a weapon in her slim hands, to visualize her lithe form sparring with an opponent, and could not keep the incredulity out of his voice. “You mean to tell me that _you_ are trained in swordplay?”

“Among other things,” she answered, the snarl fading. “I prefer a staff, personally. A sword would make such a mess…at least so I assume.” The wry smile returned. “I’ve never actually had to kill anyone, so it’s conjecture.”

He was tempted to laugh, though he dared not disbelieve her. “But…why? I mean…why would you need training in weapons, when you can use magic?”

“Fair question.” Angharad shrugged. “To begin with, handling magic requires a certain amount of strength of body and will. There are certain similarities in the training, actually - you must master yourself before you can master anything else. Besides, it would cause ill will to require, of our own kin, skills that we ourselves did not value enough to pursue. So it sets a good example for all.”

She had been busy laying out bundles of her cut sweet-grass while they talked, tying them carefully with twine. Now she wrapped them in white linen, and tucked the bundle into a satchel slung from her shoulder. “Do you think you can climb down?” she asked him, a little too innocently.

Geraint made a face. “I believe I can, thank you. Would you permit me to go first, in case…I mean, I’m sure you _won’t_ fall, but…”

She rolled her eyes. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

Once they were on the ground again he breathed easier, though he was careful not to let her see it. She walked to his driftwood pile and looked it over with evident satisfaction, picking up one long, twisted branch to examine it closely. “Look how beautiful it is,” she said. “A land thing, soaked in sea. The salt and the surf turn it into something altogether different.”

“What do you use it for?”

“The altar of Rhiannon burns driftwood,” she said, “in memory of the king.”

“Fire and water,” he murmured, and she glanced at him, impressed.

“Now you’re catching on.” She turned the branch and studied the other side. “Sometimes it’s used for divination as well. The salt in the wood creates colors in the flames, certain shapes in the grain - they can reveal things, if we read them rightly.” She gasped, startling him; put her nose close to the smooth wood. “This one says you will find a spectacular treasure that will change the course of your life.”

He leaned over it incredulously, an odd, tremulous feeling under his breastbone. “Does it really?”

She tossed it back to the ground, grinning at him. “No.”

His jaw dropped. “Why, you—“

Angharad burst into giggles and backed away; it took every ounce of his self-possession not to reach out and snatch her, the way he’d have treated his own sister when she played him such a trick, tickling her until she gasped for breath and begged for mercy. Instead, he stooped, snatched a pebble from the beach, and tossed it across the water so that it skipped - three times, four, until a wave swallowed it. “I can read fortunes in stone skips,” he declared, his thoughts tumbling over themselves. “Do you know what four means?”

“No, what?” The laughter in her voice was like wine to his senses, made him giddy, impulsive.

“That I’ve already found it.”

It slipped out before he meant, clear and vivid, as truths often do, and he barely realized what the words on his lips were until they had escaped, too late. He wondered wildly what to say next, how to recover, and cursed his foolishness. Perhaps she would think it no more than a lighthearted jest. But no, she was too astute for that; even had the words been unremarkable, his tone had given him away, and her sudden stiffening of posture told him she took his meaning. He gazed at her helplessly, holding his breath.

Her smile did not disappear, but it wavered, softened, uncertain; her cheeks flushed and eyes dropped, settling nowhere, like a nervous butterfly, unsure where to land. It dawned on him, after an eternity, that though many emotions were crossing her face, outrage and offense were not among them. Geraint breathed again, but remained silent, waiting, heart pounding.

Finally she looked at him again, biting her lip as though holding back a laugh. “Are you hungry?”

This was unexpected, and his only response was a startled noise of inquisition. She motioned toward the high ground to the north. “I brought food for you again, among other things.”

He relaxed, realizing she was changing direction deliberately, allowing them both a safe escape. “That was kind of you. I am. Hungry, that is - as are you, I imagine. Will you join me as before?”

She squinted at the sun, and her face fell. “I cannot. I must get back. My aunt needs all this quickly, and I have other duties today.” She blew a shrill whistle through her fingers, one long blast and two short; in moments there was an answering neigh, and a chestnut mare appeared, trotting down the path from the hills into the cove.

Her saddlebags were packed full. She had brought him - oh, joy - more bread and cheese, laver, meat pies, candied fruit, honey, a jug of ale. Even better - wrapped in a bedroll behind the saddle were more tools - another knife, along with a sharpening stone, spoons, dishes and bowls, fishing line and hooks, a coil of rope, a pot of salve, clean linen strips. He held up a hair comb and razor with a grin. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

She laughed. “I asked a few groomsmen what they would want if they were stranded in the wild. And you’re obviously bereft of several things. Tell me what else you need and I’ll try to get it. I’ll bring you some extra clothes once I figure out how to get them without raising suspicions.”

Geraint glanced up from his largesse, surprised. “You haven’t told anyone of me?”

Angharad looked flustered. “No. Mother would…she’d have you dragged in and questioned. And probably send you away. You’ve done nothing wrong,” she added quickly. “Well…nothing to warrant any fuss over, but she’s…distrustful of strangers, especially now.”

“Is there something wrong?” he asked. With a suddenness that was alarming, her face had clouded over, and her proud posture had drawn in on itself as though she carried a great weight.

“There’s…” she began, and hesitated. “Geraint. When you visited Abernant, what did you see? Were the people…” She hesitated again, obviously agitated, and swallowed. “Did they seem…troubled? Afraid? Did anything seem amiss?”

He thought, puzzled. “Not that I remember. Of course, I was a diversion that may have made them forget any troubles for a short time. But they have been welcoming and hospitable, and I have learned those are not qualities of folk who live in fear.”

“And while you’ve been here,” she pressed on, “have you noticed anything odd? Strange…sounds in the night, or…anything you couldn’t explain?”

The hair on his neck prickled. “No. Do you fear something? Should I be on my guard?”

Her hand on the horse’s bridle was clenched, white-knuckled. “You should always be on your guard when you’re out on your own,” she said, with a lightness that seemed rather strained. “But…Geraint, if you see or hear anything, you must tell me. I shall be coming quite often - would you keep saving the driftwood? It collects here, you know, the cove draws it in, and we need all we can get. Kelp, too, whatever washes up.” She paused thoughtfully, looking over his overturned craft. “What do you need, to make the necessary repairs to your boat?”

“Are you in a hurry to be rid of me?” It tried to be a jest, but fell flat, deflated upon the tenseness of the air. He exhaled slowly. “Well…seasoned planks, a saw and an auger. Wooden pegs and a mallet. Pitch. I can trade for most of it from the villagers, I imagine.”

She looked troubled. “It might be quicker just to provide you with a new boat. You should…” she broke off, hesitated, and then blurted out, “You should be ready to leave very quickly if necessary.”

Geraint’s heart sank. “How will I know if it is?”

“I don’t know. I’ll send word, somehow, maybe, or…perhaps it’ll be obvious.”

His own ignorance frustrated him. “You speak very vaguely, Princess.”

“I wish I could speak plainer,” she answered, “but I cannot. If it comforts you, I…I have no wish for you to leave.” She blushed, and his heart rose again, pounding wildly. “I may even have need of you. Just please, be vigilant. All is…not entirely as it seems here, just now.”

She turned away. Geraint ached to reach out to her, to embrace her as he might any other human in need of comfort. He wondered suddenly if she had ever been held by her own father, never mentioned. Surely the women of Llyr must be affectionate with one another at least. But what was it like, to be so untouchable by all but a privileged few?

He helped her wrap the driftwood in twine and tie it behind the saddle. “I should have brought a cart,” she mused, pulling herself up before it. “I was in too much of a hurry. Next time…”

“When will next time be?”

For a moment the shadow lightened on her face; she smiled faintly at him. “A few days, maybe. I’m not the only one collecting; there’s a dozen acolytes combing the coast nearer the castle, but…everyone knows this cove is my place.”

“Ah, yes.” He looked over his makeshift home appreciatively. “I remember my indebtedness to your hospitality.”

“That’s not what…” Her surprised laugh, quieter than before but still music to his ears, rippled out. “No. That was paid last time, remember? Though for the sake of more stories I would charge you for a year’s worth of lodging.” Her smile became wistful. “You owe me no debts. You make me forget my troubles for a while, Geraint of Gellau, and that is more than enough recompense.”

Something in her voice brought his heart to his throat again, and he dared to hold her gaze a moment longer than he should. “Farewell, Princess of Llyr.”

She looked as though she were about to say something more, but only nodded, face flushed, turning the horse and nudging it into a trot. He watched the sunlight flaring off her hair until she disappeared from view.


	8. Chapter 8

_I have a fire for you in my mouth,_

_but I have a hundred seals on my tongue._

~Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

* * *

Chapter Eight

_Why hadn’t she told him to leave?_

Angharad twisted her hands into Tan’s mane until the long strands bit into her fingers, turning their tips white. She stared at them absently but did not see them - nor anything else in her surroundings. Tan, fortunately, knew her own way home.

It should have been simple enough. She could have ordered him passage on a trading ship heading for the mainland the next day, and then he would, at least, be safe. From whatever was happening on the island. From whatever was happening between them.

 _Rubbish._ Angharad snatched in her breath sharply. There was _nothing_ happening between them, or not to _her_ , at any rate; nothing that couldn’t be blamed on a full moon and a lot of raw nerves and unsatisfied curiosity. She ought to have postponed this trip another day or two instead of being so blasted keen. She ought to have known better than to allow him to look her in the face; this was what came of breaking rules, of making allowances, of letting her guard down.

 _She should have made him leave._ She had meant to. She’d spent the entire journey to the cove planning out what to tell him, how to convince him to go without giving away either her worry over the island or her disappointment over the necessity of his going. She’d planned, even, to be a bit harsh if she had to.

And then the moment she stood before him and he had looked at her with those laughing blue eyes, so bursting with light and life, she had forgotten every word. _Llyr._ Was _this_ why eye contact with men was forbidden?

No, of course not. How absurd. Common men or noble, they were like enough, and she could look her own cousins in the face, the Chief Steward, even the High King, without any such disconcerting effect. Even Gwydion’s clear, earnest gaze did not make her heart rise into her throat the way Geraint’s did…though come to think of it, there were certain similarities in their expressions toward her, and it was all too true that she had begun to blush in Gwydion’s presence. But that was entirely different.

 _I’ve already found it._ What did one say after such a thing? When Gwydion had made comments with such unmistakeable intent she had feigned to misunderstand him, laughed as though she believed he were teasing her. She saw that her laughter pained him, and wondered if it would have been worse or better to be as direct as her wont, and was irritated at his putting her in such a predicament at all. The Prince of Don was a frustrating creature, having stubbornly resisted being pigeonholed into any convenient category between _friend_ and… _something else,_ undefined. She could not even say exactly _why_ his compliments left her lukewarm; certainly he was attractive, in his rugged, dark way, with his aura of serious authority and his rare, intense smile. She found him admirable, a fascinating conversationalist, a trustworthy friend, a man of honor. But further than that she had never cared to explore, even should the temptation present itself. Which it had. Repeatedly.

A match between them was unthinkable, at any rate. Llyr was independent and would ever belong to its Daughters; unless the prince were willing to abdicate the throne of Prydain to become a mere queen’s consort, there could be no union between monarchs. Angharad suspected that Regat had made this excessively clear to him upon his last visit, and was, for once, relieved and rather grateful for the queen’s adamance.

And what would her mother say about _Geraint?_ Almost she laughed; it was _too_ ridiculous, blushing over a few compliments and sheep’s-eyes; ludicrous, that a common roving storyteller had drawn blood where a Crown Prince had failed. The bards might come up with such nonsense; nursemaids might spin it into children’s bedtime tales, but that _she,_ Angharad of Llyr, should be subject to this madness…

She groaned out loud, startling the horse, who broke into a trot for a few yards until Angharad reigned her in.

 _I am a fool._ But at least she could be foolish to a purpose; Geraint could be more useful to her if he stayed a little longer; could, she realized, be the one to courier her message to the Sons of Don if it came to that, especially if he had a functioning boat, and could leave the island undetected. He was, in fact, perfect for the task, for he knew the lay of the land and could reach Caer Dathyl quickly….and she had a hunch he would willingly undertake almost anything she asked of him.

A twinge of guilt pricked at her. Was it fair, to let him stay, to allow him to believe that…that she could…no, surely he could not be so naive. He was a man grown, and wise to the ways of the world, and could not be ignorant of the insurmountable distance between them. If he stayed, he did so of his own free will, not because he could have any idea of…of…

…what sort of ideas might he have, exactly?

Oh, _Rhiannon._ She’d breathe easier when he was gone.

She bypassed the castle and went straight to the grove, the broad circle of willows nestled in a hollow in the hills to the east, where the devotees of the Moon carried out their duties and kept the fire burning upon the stone altar. White-robed girls, their heads wreathed in hawthorn blossoms, appeared from behind the trees to unload her supplies, and Angharad noted with relief that between her labors and the acolytes’, there looked to be enough for several days at least.

A tall girl at the altar called her name and hurried toward her. There were pearls nestling in her dark braids and her white robes were more ornate than those of her attendants; gold and silver and cobalt embroidery intertwined at her neckline, the hems of her skirt and fluttering sleeves. A silver crescent pendant rested upon her breast.Angharad embraced her, sighing into her hair. “Eilwen.”

Her sister pulled back to arm’s length to regard her with a pair of shrewd, piercing sea-green eyes - their inheritance from the father neither of them remembered. “Angharad, what’s happening? Our aunt came back in a state; she didn’t sleep, just paced all night. And now we’re to keep the fire going indefinitely? She won’t tell me anything. What did the scry show you?”

“I can’t tell you either - yet,” Angharad said dully. “Mother’s forbidden it.”

Eilwen’s face twisted into a frustrated scowl. “That’s never stopped you before. It must be bad.”

“It is. At least…it could be. But she has a plan.” Angharad frowned. “She says. It’s all…complicated, and I understand why she wants everything quiet for now, but…oh, Eilwen, be on your guard.”

“Is it the quakes? Did you find out what’s causing them?”

“I can’t…” Angharad closed her eyes, drew in a long breath through her clenched teeth. “Don’t press me. She’s being unreasonable, but I cannot afford to anger her. We’re already on uneven ground, and this is too important.”

“Mother, unreasonable?” Eilwen’s mouth quirked up at one corner, a sympathetic mirror of her sister’s expression.

“I expect you’ll find out soon enough. She says we’ll need every hand - whatever she’s planning, I’m sure it’ll involve all of us.” Angharad unstrapped her leather bag to hand it off to an acolyte, paused, and pulled out the parcel of sweetgrass. She unwrapped the linen, selecting one bundle whose twine she had tied backwards to mark it from the others, and handed it to her sister. “Here. This one’s my offering.”

Eilwen took it and pressed it under her nose, breathing in the sweetness. “Oooh, you’ve been to the cove, you lucky creature. Lovely. I’ll take care of it.” Her face changed suddenly; she inhaled a little harder. “This is…different than your usual.” She inhaled again, her brow furrowing, eyes closing; when they opened again they were glittering with a fierce, primal light. “Angharad. What aren’t you telling me?”

Angharad flinched, her heart pounding. _Idiot,_ she thought viciously at herself; she could have handed that grass off to one of the acolytes and nobody would have been the wiser. None of them had trained in the grove long enough to match Eilwen’s sharpened senses, or had enough familial knowledge of her to pick up the subtle scent of whatever power had imbued that particular clump of grass - the one she had been in the process of cutting when Geraint had grabbed her arm.

She had known instantly that something had happened, felt the jolt in her whole body the second he had touched her, as though it had burst a dam and allowed a current to pour through: a river of warm sweetness that filled her senses and shot through her fingertips into the very air around her. It had startled her, nearly made her let go of the rock, and when she had whirled to look at him it had been in shock, not outrage, though she knew by his face that he thought she must be angry. He had let go immediately, snatching his hand away as though he had inadvertently put it in a fire, which he might as well have done; had they been among court witnesses he would have been summarily relieved of it. She quaked at the knowledge. At least that was what she told herself, to explain the tremble in her hands, the sudden deficiency in her knees that she’d shaken out by continuing to climb.

And here was her sister - who, having been trained for High Priestess since her early childhood, at eighteen could detect certain signs almost as well as the aunt whose status she was to inherit - and Angharad had, without thinking, just handed her an open book. There was, she realized, looking at that fierce green gaze that was reading far too much of her, absolutely no way to lie her way out of this. She said nothing, warmth creeping up her neck.

Eilwen squinted at her, grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the altar, where the small driftwood fire was crackling with green and purple-tipped flame. She hummed a chant while her slim hands moved in ritual patterns, laid the bundle of grass inside the creamy, rose-streaked bowl of a scallop shell, and placed it near the fire to smolder.

“I need to get back to—,” Angharad began, feebly, and took a step back, but Eilwen grabbed her sleeve again.

“Oh no, you don’t. You’ve not been here in a fortnight, anyway; you can spare half an hour to please me, even if you don’t care about slighting the goddess.” Eilwen smirked at her and leaned over the shell, where smoke began to rise up, fragrant, light and sweet. But there was a rich, heady note as well that Angharad had never encountered before; it pooled in her lungs, and spread a pleasant, pulsing warmth through her ribs and belly and limbs.

 _“Blessed Rhiannon,”_ Eilwen hissed under her breath; she pushed the grass away from the fire, grabbed her sister by the wrist again and yanked her away. She marched her across the grove and under the arches of the willows until they reached the row of low stone buildings that served as lodging for devotees, and drew her inside her own chamber, shutting the door and bolting it, and shuttering the open window so that the room fell into darkness. “Light,” the girl ordered, in a hoarse whisper, and Angharad pulled out her sphere and set it aglow. Eilwen grabbed it from her, tossed it onto her bed and pushed Angharad down to sit next to it. The light threw black shadows upon the walls, hard-edged against the whitewashed stone, broken by the silhouettes of branches and flowers that sat in jugs in every corner. The scent of hawthorn bloom was everywhere, cloyingly sweet.

“Now,” said Eilwen, low but insistent, pulling up an osier stool to sit across from her. “Who is he?”

Angharad bent over her own knees, buried her face in her arms as if she could hold it all in somehow, the admission, the truth of it, until it went away. “It’s no one. Nobody.” Her voice sounded strained even to her, trapped in her elbows like a caged bird.

“Angharad, _I’m a priestess_ ,” Eilwen hissed. “You couldn’t have announced it better if you’d set yourself on fire. Who is he and why are you hiding him?”

Angharad cringed. “Because he really _is_ nobody. And this is _nothing_ \- it really is…or it will be, in time. I didn’t mean for it to turn into…Anyway, he’s going to leave. He’s not of Llyr and I’ll be all right once he’s gone.” She cradled her face in her hands, icy against her blazing cheeks.

Eilwen sat back, looking rather stunned. “Are there visitors I don’t know about? I’ve heard nothing of potential suitors coming to Caer Colur, not since Gwydion-”

“Ugh,” Angharad grunted, through her fingers. “No. There are no visitors. No suitors, thank Llyr. Mother has enough on her mind.”

“As do you, manifestly,” Eilwen snorted. “Come, out with it. Honestly, you act like I’ve never heard of this when it’s all I hear about all day long. Is it an illicit affair? Most of them _are_ , you know; even mother’s had a couple, but you didn’t hear that from me. Another woman’s husband? Another _woman?_ Don’t look shocked, it happens more than you think.”

“It’s _not_ an illicit affair,” Angharad moaned, too distressed to do more than tuck away these revelations for later. “Nothing’s happened; I’ve just met him. A common man, a traveler from Prydain, wrecked onshore in that storm a month back. I came upon him by accident while I was down at the cove, a fortnight ago, and I’ve visited a few times; we just…talk.”

“A _fortnight?”_ Eilwen exclaimed. “And already you’re this far gone?”

“I don’t know,” Angharad moaned. “I don’t know _what_ I feel, exactly. When we met, he was just a…an…interesting diversion. But then I couldn’t stop thinking about him.” She pressed her palms to her eyes until white sparks danced before them, as if she might press Geraint’s face from her mind.“And this morning…”

She knew by the sudden breath on her knuckles that Eilwen had leaned forward eagerly. “Ha! I knew it must be recent, by the potency. What happened?”

Annoyed, Angharad raised her face and shoved her sister back onto her stool. “Nothing like what _you’re_ thinking. We just talked more. Or I did. He was quieter than usual. But he looked…he looked…” she trailed off, unable to put that vivid blue fire in his eyes into words.

Eilwen needed no clarification. “So he feels it too,” she declared. “But I don’t understand what you’re so upset about. It’s not a crime to want a man, Angharad. I’m just surprised it’s never happened before this.”

“But nothing can _come of it,”_ Angharad protested. “He has neither birth nor power to recommend him. If Mother knew, she’d have him in the dungeons by the end of the day.”

“I’m not suggesting you marry him,” Eilwen retorted, exasperated. “Only that you stop tormenting yourself.”

“What am I supposed to do?” She ground her fists into the bedclothes in frustration. “This is nothing I have time for right now. We can’t afford the distraction.”

“I don’t know,” her sister murmured. “It makes you particularly powerful, actually. Whatever’s in the wind, if Mother plans to fight it magically, you could do worse than pursue him.”

“I’m not going to string him along just to increase my powers!”

Eilwen shrugged. “It’s a benefit Mother couldn’t argue about, that’s all.”

“It doesn’t matter. I won’t just amuse myself with any man who hasn’t even the potential of being a suitable match. It couldn’t end well.” Angharad rose and paced the length of the room, stopping before the window and pushing open the shutters; she needed air. “I won’t be the means of breaking anyone’s heart if I can help it.”

_His or mine._

_Nonsense._ No one’s heart was breaking over some passing fancy, some moonstruck infatuation with a handsome face and the novel ability to look her in the eye and laugh. _I will master this._ It would be easier when full moon was over. She would stay away until then; perhaps she should stay away altogether until she needed him to take her message to Gwydion. But suppose he left? A man with Geraint’s restless foot wouldn’t stay long in a lonely place like the cove unless he had a reason. If she suddenly stopped visiting, would he leave? No, she had told him she might need him for something. Oh, Llyr, she couldn’t _think._

Eilwen slid her slender arms around her waist from behind, rested her chin on her shoulder. She felt her sigh. “If loving where you please isn’t a luxury you will allow yourself, then I’m sorry. How can I be happy for you if you won’t even let yourself be happy?”

“There are more important things at stake than my happiness,” Angharad whispered dully. Her eyes burned.

“Sounds like something Mother would say,” Eilwen muttered. She squeezed her gently. “Tell me about him.” 

Her mind whispered that this was dangerous, that talking about him would only… “He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I could’ve guessed that; you’ll have to do better. Is he tall?”

“Yes.”

“Well-built and handsome?”

“Yes.”

“How’s his ar— ”

“Eil _wen!_ ” She whirled, face flaming, and shook off her sister’s embrace with an hysterical gasp of laughter. “You _would_ ask that. I haven’t looked.”

“It’s not ladylike to lie.” Eilwen’s grin was unrepentant. “Come, you’re making me do all the work; if you don’t like my questions then cough up without them.”

Angharad slumped onto the bed again, surrendered. She told it, from the beginning; a trickle of words that, in relief at being ungated at last, quickly turned into a flood, a deluge. When it was done she was lying with her head in Eilwen’s lap, without quite recalling how she’d gotten there.

“Poor darling,” Eilwen murmured, stroking her hair. “And to think it all started just with wanting a good sea-dunking, and you’ve never yet gotten it, have you?”

Angharad huffed weakly. “That’s all I need, now, as if full moon weren’t enough. Wouldn’t dare it for a week at least, and I might as well wait until baths since I can’t do it at the cove.”

“Nothing’s stopping you from bathing at the cove. I’m sure _he_ wouldn’t mind.”

“Eilwen.”

“Well, you got to watch _him_ ; turn about is fair play and all that.”

_“Stop it.”_

Eilwen giggled. “What _are_ you going to do? You can’t just stop going, not after asking him to collect things for you; that would be rude.”

“I don’t know. I have to think. Maybe you could go collect - on second thought, no,” Angharad muttered, seeing her sister’s expression. “I don’t want to think about what _you’d_ tell him. I shall have to keep my distance, that’s all. Only go when I must, and only stay as long as necessary.”

“How very dull,” Eilwen sighed. “What a pity I didn’t find him first.” She leaned over, kissed her sister on the brow. “I shall hope for better things for you, even if you won’t. You can’t stop me.”

“You’d be better off devoting your attention to your duties,” Angharad grunted, sitting up. “I’ve already kept you from them long enough.”

“Yes, Mother.” Eilwen rolled her eyes, but followed her to the door. “You’re right, but thanks for the diversion. This was much better than our aunt’s hand-wringing all night.” She squinted as they emerged into the sunlight, and looked anxiously at her sister. “How bad is it, really, Angharad?”

Angharad hesitated. The vision of fire and flood she had pushed to the back of her mind; it hung there, heavy, pregnant with dread; she was afraid to speak of it aloud. “It’s…very bad. Worse than any of us had imagined. If mother’s plan doesn’t work…” She looked around at the beautiful trees, the white stone buildings, legacies of centuries. Her throat tightened. “Just keep the fires burning, Eilwen. And do whatever Arianrhod tells you. It’s important.”

Eilwen, seeing her gravity, for once was silent. They embraced once more, and Angharad watched her stride away through the trees, back toward the center of the grove, and turned her own face back toward the castle.


	9. Chapter 9

_…Now they have the ocean_

_The cold and burning emptiness_

_The solitude full of flames._

~Pablo Neruda

* * *

Chapter Nine

Geraint sat back on his heels in the dirt, squinted at the blue-and-white marbled sky, and frowned to himself. He was beginning to wonder exactly what he was doing here.

Planting vegetables, at the moment, but that wasn’t the point…though it was rather part of the question. He contemplated his small plot of green leaves. Among Angharad’s gifted provisions there had been a bag of turnips and onions, and he, loathe to waste anything, had dutifully saved the leafy tops of his produce, and settled them in a square of earth he had marked off behind the hut, near the stream, where he might easily divert the water to irrigate them. They had looked so well there that he had decided to add more, and had traded and performed for various seedlings in the village, so that now, respectable rows of transplanted greenery stood proudly in the earth, marking it as his.

Turnips and onions planted this late would only produce edible greens, of course, not full roots. But a garden was a garden, and a garden indicated a certain amount of…permanence. A permanence that, for the first time in years, he actually desired…and, ironically, could not have. Not really.

He sighed. It wasn’t practical at all; no matter how many improvements he made to the hut or grounds, he could not reasonably expect to overwinter here - at least, not without relying even more on the charity of the villagers, which he did not wish to do, or of Angharad herself, whose endless generosity was beginning to frustrate him over his inability to return it with much of anything better than a few driftwood piles and stories. She had visited nearly every other day for almost two weeks, always bringing some gift, and had never suggested that he owed her in kind - indeed, had denied it vehemently, more than once. He dared to hope that she might, perhaps, take less pleasure in showing him kindness if he were anyone else - but this was daring much, and either way, it chafed him as somehow backwards to the natural order of things. She would, no doubt, scoff at this - but then it must seem natural, to someone in her position, to provide for a subject with no thought of return.

Of course, he wasn’t her subject.

He wasn’t sure precisely what he was.

Geraint rose from his knees with a grunt, brushed the soil from his hands, and propped his makeshift hoe against the hut wall, next to a frame where two salted rabbit skins were drying in the sun. He paused, staring at them, raw memory pushing fresh into his mind.

_“Poor things,” she says, squinting at the creatures dangling from his snares._

_“If you want to eat,” he remarks, with a shrug, pulling out his knife, “you’ve got to be more practical than sentimental.”_

_She sighs, “I know,” and sits, with her back to a boulder, to watch while he guts one. He watches her from the corner of his eye while he slices the skin and pulls it back; to his surprise, she betrays no horror or disgust. “It peels right off,” she exclaims, with some fascination._

_He laughs. “It’s not as easy as it looks. Want to try?”_

_It was meant in jest, but she holds her hands out for the other coney; he hands it to her, then the knife, with raised eyebrows. She pokes at the soft underbelly. “Where do I start?”_

_“Just there, under the ribs. Not too deep or you’ll puncture the gut and make a mess. If you do it right, all the inner bits will come out at once, more or less.” He watches, a little astonished, while she follows his instructions without hesitation, slicing through tissue and scraping out innards with all the studiousness of a druid examining entrails._

_“Now trim the skin off at the head and feet, and cut up the middle, over the breast. Then you can start pulling it back from the neck.” She is quick and efficient with the knife; he waits to see her reaction to the difficulty, the surprisingly strong resistance, of skin separating from muscle. Her bloodied hands are slippery, struggling; he sees her jaw clench and face flush; her knuckles stand out like tiny white hills._

_“Belin,” she blurts out suddenly, with a gasping chuckle. “Did I say it peels right off? No wonder we give the butcher this job.”_

_He crouches on his heels before her and grabs the other end of the hare, holds it steady for resistance. “Here, this might help.”_

_She grins and pushes a stray lock of hair from her face with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of blood at her temple. Gripping the skin again, she yanks backwards with unexpected strength. The slippery carcass flies from his clutches and he almost topples over, landing one precarious hand against the boulder at her back just in time to stop himself from tumbling into her._

_A jumble of sensation: her eyes, wide and shocked, inches away, her sudden sharp inhale close to his face, the warmth of her shoulder that grazes his wrist…too much, it almost does him in, but for the fact that she clutches a pungent half-skinned rabbit between them, under his chin. He pushes away hastily, clumsy in his efforts not to touch her, even accidentally, and sprawls backwards onto the ground, gasping out, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t…quite…”_

_But she erupts into giggles, then peals of laughter, she is rosy-faced and dancing-eyed, and further words are swallowed up in his own answering laugh of relief, of shared acknowledgement of the absurdity of it all._

What was he doing?

_“There’s…” he motions toward his own eye, while they crouch near the stream, washing their hands. “There’s blood on your face.”_

_“Oh!” She touches her left cheekbone, rubs at it with her sleeve. “Well, we can’t have that. Imagine the questions at home. There, did I get it?”_

_“No, it’s…” he makes a frustrated movement as she prods at her own forehead and temple. “It’s just there, by your eyebrow. That’s it. But it’s dried, not coming off.”_

_“Needs water,” she says, and he tears a bit from the hem of his shirt, soaks it, wrings it and holds it out to her. She gestures toward her face, and inclines toward him. “Would you mind? I can’t see.”_

_It should be a simple thing. A quick swipe of cloth upon skin; nothing. Her eyes close as he reaches up, chestnut lashes dark against her pale skin. Golden freckles scatter across her cheeks like powdered spices on cream. His hand shakes until he is sure she must feel it, even through the cloth, but she makes no indication, unless perhaps that subtle parting of her lips speaks of breath that comes a little less readily than it did a moment ago, if it’s anything like his own…_

What were _they_ doing?

Geraint strode to the front of the hut, restless. _I’m teaching her things,_ he thought, firmly, at himself, _because she asks._ She commanded, rather, with that careless imperiousness, tempered now by amusement when she spoke to him, as though it were a game she was playing. A dangerous game, perhaps, for him to join in, but it was the only way he could think of to repay her, by satisfying her endless curiosity and determination. If it also fed his pride to see her admiration of his skills, well, then…at least he had the sense to see it, to remember that it was illusory: this pretense that he could be her superior in any way, teach her anything she really needed to know.

And he was glad of the opportunity, truth be told. Angharad looked increasingly weary and worried when she arrived at the cove. She collected the wood he had gathered and various herbs and implements she needed quickly so that she might steal an hour or two, she said, to enjoy her time away from the castle. She answered his concerned questions with vagaries and then veered off, deflecting him by exclaiming over each new fruit of his labor, demanding to be shown how he had accomplished this or that. Her enthusiasm over his work, her stubborn desire to master the same skills, were so almost-childlike in their intensity that he could not help indulging them, and when he finally saw the anxiety fade from her eyes, the smile spread like sunlight across her face, all his efforts were worth the trouble.

Her inconsistencies were baffling. She had cheerfully slid a knife through a pale fish belly, cleaned it and cooked it over his fire with the same intense fascination she had displayed over the rabbits, yet when he had shown her how to pluck down from a wild grouse she had balked. The skin, she said, looked horrible - all pimply and pale - and she would not touch it.

She had woven reeds together for a basket with meditative patience, but when he tried to show her how to start a fire with only flint and tinder she had lost her temper within minutes, throwing down the stones and giving the kindling one hot glare that immolated it in an instant, shriveling the skin on the spitted fowl above it to a blackened crisp.

She knew how to embroider and how to sew a seam, but not how to construct a garment, and watched him piece together a new shirt from the linen scraps she brought him with a great deal of interest. He had traded labor for leather from the tanner in Abernant and made himself a new pair of shoes; she was so impressed with these that she insisted on making a pair of her own, which took her the better part of two visits - but then refused to take them back to Caer Colur, where they would be noticed by the servants as out-of-place.

“Don’t you have any place to hide your secrets?” he had asked her, half-teasing.

“Not at home,” she had answered, with unexpected seriousness, “just here.” And then looked quickly away from him, flustered, as though she had said something more significant than she meant, and changed the subject.

He tried not to think too hard about such moments, to read too much into them, to allow himself to believe she could regard him with anything approaching what he felt for her. He could not even hope that she did. What could it bring her but pain? He was, at least, free to love her from a distance, without guilt or expectation. She had, he suspected, no such freedom.

Perhaps he should just leave, before things got any more…more…whatever they were.

But he could not bear to think of leaving. Not yet.

The cove felt empty now, too quiet when she wasn’t there, and he roamed further and further from his hut on days he did not expect her. He knew, by now, what lay within an hour’s walk in every direction except the one from which Angharad came; she had been very clear that he should not go near Caer Colur if he did not want to be brought in and questioned, which she was anxious to avoid. He ought to gather the remaining supplies for his boat repairs; the boat would be a more efficient way of traveling further while still being able to return within a day.

Mind made up, he shouldered his sack - self-made from bits of an old canvas sail he’d found discarded near the village docks - and filled it with several items he knew would have value in Abernant, including the rabbit skins; he’d drop them off with the tanner.

His homemade bow hung over the door of the hut; he took it and a few arrows, in case he should startle up any small game on the way, which was how he’d bagged the grouse on his last trip. It was a rough weapon, made from a sapling cut from a tiny grove in a hollow a few miles north of the cove, strung with twine salvaged from the rubbish heaps in Abernant. He and his friends had made many such as a child; they were common playthings for boys but a large one could be just as deadly, teamed with good sturdy arrows, as the hand-carved, elegant weapons of any royal bowyer.

Angharad had exclaimed over it, when he’d shown it to her, with a rather hesitant enthusiasm that told him she was humoring him a little. She examined it curiously, said it was very clever, tested the string, asked where he’d learned to fletch … then stood up and, with breathtaking form, shot twice, one arrow after another, without time for him to blink in between, into an irregular lump of turf a hundred yards away. Even at that distance he could tell they both struck within an inch of each other, and gaped at her as she looked at the bow with obvious newfound respect.

“This is very good,” she said, handing it back to him. Geraint had felt just a little indignant.

“Did you think it wouldn’t work?” 

She had bitten her lip sheepishly. “I wasn’t quite sure. I’ve never seen one so…erm…primitive.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “Bowmaking has been around a long time, and was not always the high craft it is now. What do you think our ancestors did?”

Her expression had changed, irresistibly, into a slow, expectant, silky smile that melted away his indignation like wax in a flame. “I don’t know,” she purred, “what did they do?”

Shots fired. Willingly surrendered, he had composed a story for her on the spot.

He found his mind unusually, spectacularly productive. Angharad’s audience stoked his imagination, bringing characters and events and legends to life until he felt as though he was not their creator but merely the channel through which they spoke. Even his oldest stories, those he had discarded for being stale and dull, were resurrected for her, altered and embellished until they seemed breathlessly new, or perhaps it was simply her animated response that made them so. He could not look directly at her while he performed; her expressions and reactions made him quite forget what he was saying, but even in his side vision she glowed and trembled and flashed like light on water, buoying his confidence, bringing out something that seemed almost like…magic. Sometimes he half-wondered if it _wasn’t_ real magic…this energy that possessed him, that flowed so effortlessly while she was watching.

The path to Abernant meandered among the sea cliffs, giving his mind time and space to do the same, his long strides providing a counterpoint to his tangled, swift thoughts. The thunder of the surf was a steady, endless thrum in his ears, a presence so constant he had ceased to notice it, but he still caught his breath every time he came to a point where the cliffs parted to reveal a dark expanse of blue water, shimmering in the sun, compelling, beckoning.

When he reached the little cluster of cottages that made up the village he found them unusually quiet. He was a local fixture now, accustomed to being cheerfully hailed from open doorways and gardens and mobbed by enthusiastic children, but today doors were shut, and greetings from the adults he saw out working, while not unfriendly, were low and short.

Geraint made his way to the tannery, located at the northernmost point on the outskirts of the village, downwind of the sea breezes…for good reason, he thought, coughing, as the odor of the place assaulted his nose. Its master, seeing him approach, waved him toward the cottage, set well away from the pits and vats that held the foul-smelling ingredients of the trade.

Mawrth Tanner was middle-aged and hale, a straightforward man of few words with a reputation for scrupulous honesty. Geraint enjoyed his company and that of his wife, a witty, sharp woman who said all the things her quiet husband did not. Their home was one of his havens when he went to the village, as it was one of the few in which he did not have to spend half his time fending off young ladies. To be sure, Nia never missed an opportunity to remind him that he was shirking his responsibilities as an unmarried man, but her motivations were, at least, untainted by any thought of capturing him for a daughter. The Tanners had only sons.

He knocked at the cottage door and in a moment it was opened by a small, stocky, dark-headed boy, who fell upon him instantly.

“Geraint!” The child threw his arms around Geraint’s waist, beaming, and grabbed his arm, pulled him inside the house. “Mam! The storyteller’s here!”

“So I see.” Nia looked in from the back door, reeking of beef tallow, a sharp knife clutched in her sturdy brown hand. She waved it at Geraint with a grin. “Come in and sit down, lad. Mawrth’ll be here in a moment; I’ve got to finish this scraping job.” She frowned at the boy still clinging to him. “Marlen! Go and get to grinding that bark with your brother, or it’s _your_ hide we’ll be tanning next. Three times your Tad has told you this morning.”

Marlen groaned. “But Mam, what if I miss a story?”

Geraint laughed, and extricated his arm from the child’s clutches. “You’ve got to earn a story with your chores. Help Madox, and when you’re done I’ll have one ready for the both of you.”

The boy whooped, and flew from the front door as Mawrth entered from the back, pecking his wife on the cheek as he passed her. He clasped Geraint by the hand in welcome and bade him sit, taking the rabbit skins he offered and looking them over. “Pretty pelts,” Mawrth remarked. “Good for a winter cap. Quick work, rabbits, ready in a fortnight.”

Geraint hesitated. He had thought to trade the pelts, but it now struck him that he’d rather like to keep them, if only for sentiment. He wondered what the plain-spoken man before him would say if he told him who was responsible for the removal of one of those skins he held. Keenly attuned to the threads of legend, Geraint had quickly picked up on the universal suspicion that the Daughters of Llyr, though many generations removed from the Sea King, were still not altogether quite mortal beings. The image of their fiery-headed princess, of whom the people spoke in reverent tones, sitting cross-legged on the muddy ground and yanking bare-handed at a bloody rabbit skin with grimy smudges on her face would be incomprehensible. He almost laughed, imagining their shock, and forgetting, for a moment, that he would have thought the same a scant few weeks ago.

“What can I give you for the job?” he asked.

The tanner grunted, waving a brown-stained hand. “Nought. You’ve already done the hard bit, and they’re just bits of things. I’ll set the boys on them for the rest, good practice.”

“I’ll give them a specially good tale then,” Geraint promised, “if you’re sure there’s nothing I can help with.” It struck him that the man looked a bit haggard, the blue eyes in the sun-browned face less keen than usual. “You look weary. Are all well here?”

Mawrth shrugged. “Aye. But…” He hesitated. “There’s been some trouble in the village, and a few of us have had late nights, sitting up watching.”

A cold prickle tugged at Geraint’s scalp. He thought of Angharad’s warning. _If you see or hear anything, you must tell me._ “Watching for what? What sort of trouble?”

“Och,” Mawrth said hastily, “naught to worry a guest with.”

Nia strode in at that moment, drying her hands on a rough towel. “It’ll worry him enough if he tries to go through the commons today,” she declared. “Trouble wags tongues and fear makes monsters out of men, as they say. You’ll stay to sup with us, lad?”

“I shouldn’t wish to intrude.”

“Oh, rubbish. It’ll get those everlasting boys out of my hair at least; they’ve not been allowed to roam far these three days and I’m about to pickle them both.” She bustled to the hearth and stoked the embers beneath the kettle. “How are you faring out there, alone in that cove of yours?”

“I’m all—,” he began, but she went on decidedly.

“It’s unnatural, a young man by himself. I keep telling you.” Handing around tankards, she poured ale for them all and set the jug on the table, winking at Geraint over its top as she sat down. “Whenever you’d like company over there, I hear you’d have your pick of the village.”

“Have you seen anything odd around at the cove?” Mawrth interrupted, to Geraint’s relief, while Nia took a breath. “Losing any land to the sea? Queer noises at night?”

The questions were disturbingly familiar. “No,” Geraint answered. “Nothing. Is that what’s happening?”

“Those are the rumors, and more,” Nia said. “Mind you, nothing’s happened here. But there were traders come from the east side, three days ago, full of stories that would straighten your hair. Of creatures in the night stealing children from cradles, and folks dropping like flies from plague inland, fires erupting in the middle of fields and burning everything to cinders, flocks torn apart by giant wolves, and tremors making the cliffs collapse; whole villages falling into the sea and getting swallowed by dirty great serpents in the water."

“We like your stories better,” Mawrth muttered into his tankard.

Geraint frowned. “So do I. Where are all these things happening?”

“Nowhere, most likely,” Nia scoffed. “A lot of bloody nonsense. Those east coast traders love a sensation.” But she said it a little too forcefully, and he saw her glance toward the back door, where noise of her boys’ chatter drifted in. She lowered her voice.“They say there’s been message after message to the queen, but nobody can see much of anything being done about it. Just relocating those who’ve lost homes to the slides. There was some grumbling.” She shook her head, troubled. “Never heard any of that before. Anyway, it’s got everyone pulled tight as bowstrings, scared to go out after dark, and children not allowed to stray far from their homes. The men have been taking it in turns to keep watch at night - though nobody seems to quite know what they’re watching for. And now of course folks are seeing things that an’t there and stirring it all up further.”

“It’ll die down in a few days, no doubt,” said Mawrth. “But Nia’s right. If you go to the common now, don’t expect the usual welcome.”

“I noticed it was quiet in the village,” Geraint said. “Perhaps I’ll wait another day or two. I need a few things, but not urgently.”

“Stay with us, then,” Nia urged. “The boys have asked after you so often I was tempted to send them over to drag you here. We could all use something to cheer us.”

So he stayed, into the evening, and the cottage was as full of warmth and light as he was with bread and stew and baked apples, and he and Mawrth sang rollicking sea chanties while they washed up, and the boys danced and beat each other for drums while Nia sat in a corner stitching a pair of leather cuffs and laughed until she cried. And the shadows fell away from the faces of his hosts as they watched the children sit spellbound and shining-eyed at his feet while he performed, and then they all begged for more, just one more story before he left…

Nia piled two more loaves into his arms at the door. “It’s a crying shame,” she informed him sternly, “for you to be going back alone to that forsaken place, when you ought to be doing this every blessed night, with a lady and little ones of your own. You mind that, you wandering rascal, and think about doing your duty for a change.”

“Oh, leave him be, Nia.” Mawrth’s voice drifted from within, amused. “He’s not even of Llyr; why should he settle here? You’re only convincing him that a woman will nag him to death.”

She cackled, turned Geraint around by the shoulders and pushed him out, into the golden light of sunset. “There! Go and enjoy your solitude until you’re good and tired of it, boy.”

Madox and Marlen waved to him from the loft window until he was out of sight, and Geraint turned his face back toward the cove, lighthearted…a joy that quickly changed to sobriety as he made his way back through the cluster of cottages on the cove side of Abernant, encountered again the strange silence and reserved, tense manner of the inhabitants. He was relieved when he reached the lonely cliff path again, but it was a hollow kind of relief, a sense of choosing only the lesser of two wrongs. The journey felt longer on the way back, the shadows darker, as though they might be full of lurking things just beyond sight. _Creatures in the night, stealing children from cradles_ …he shuddered, grimacing; such horror stories were, of course, well-known to him; lurking in the shadows of every tribe and family to be released like creeping things on dark nights around fires, born of some strange human need for the icy thrill of fear that made home and hearth all the more comfortable. But that such tales were being reported as realities…

By the time he reached the cove, stars were glimmering overhead; the sea was a black, moaning nothingness, filling the darkness to the south, and his tiny hut seemed colder and emptier than it ever had before.


	10. Chapter 10

_How should I sing when buffeting salt waves_

_And stung with bitter surges, in whose might_

_I toss, a cockleshell?_

~Amy Lowell

* * *

Chapter Ten

On earth, fire is a living thing: like all life, it breathes; it consumes that which lived or once did; it grows; and if it does not do these things it dies.

But the fire beneath the earth is different. Beneath the crushing weight of airless stone it breathes not, yet it burns; it has no fuel, yet consumes the solid rock; it has nowhere to go, yet it grows, pushes forward, creates its own relentless paths. It is, in fact, a different element than its counterpart above; it is of the earth itself, an element that would be inaccessible to those who have no affinity for it - except that it burns. It burns, and fire is a power that crosses boundaries.

Every night, Angharad stood upon the ritual tower, clasping the hands of her mother and aunt in the triad once again, their spirits far from the physical reality of their joined figures; their minds roaming within the bedrock of their island, seeking out the faults, the fragmentations, the areas whose heated turmoil drew their related magic as a magnet draws iron filings. When they found a flaw it took their combined power to push the flame back, for the alien fire did not respond willingly, and a malevolent will lurked like a shadow behind it, driving it always to new fissures, to alternate entries, though whether this presence was aware of their having engaged in the battle was impossible to discern. 

It was noxious, this fire; it smelt and tasted of metal and sulphur, it was hard-edged as crystal, thick and viscous like tar; its colors were livid, roiling with an ugly light that illuminated nothing. Angharad hated it; it felt not at all kin to the sparking, thrilling, crackling element she knew, the soaring, brilliant waves of light and heat that responded to her as effortlessly as her own limbs did. But _this_ was not fire; it was fire’s bastard cousin, banned from the records, ignored, and then showing up on your doorstep demanding recognition, birthing pandemonium. Had she a choice she would have had nothing to do with it.

Yet it must be engaged, and engage it they did, slowly, agonizingly, driving it from one fault and then another, and the rock cooled and solidified in its wake. She wondered if the resulting scars were as strong as they should be, whether they were merely leaving weak points for further exploitation, but there was nothing else to be done; they had no power over earth, beyond the ability of fire and water to shape it - and introducing water into these fault-lines would be disastrous.

The damage, though bad enough, had turned out to be less extensive than they had feared; the vision that had shown them such total destruction had been, apparently, a worst-case prediction. The castle itself, and the land immediately surrounding it, was solid and safe for miles; it was the east and southeast coastline that were bearing the brunt of the attack, which only served to confirm Regat’s suspicions of the source of it. Night after night, region by region, they explored, in spirit, places it would have gained them nothing to visit in body; Angharad, spent and exhausted after these sessions, returned to her chambers almost senseless and slept long past sunrise. Whether it was doing any good, she could not say; tremors ceased in one area only to begin in another; every other day, grave messages arrived at the castle: seven more fallen to the illness in the river valley; another fish kill in the harbor; dead gulls found by the hundreds, littering an eastern beach; sheep lying unmarked but dead in the morning after a silent and unsuspecting night; everywhere, the whispers growing to anxious murmurings; _what is it; what is happening; send help_.

The queen grew ever more grave, and dutifully sent healers to the villages beset by illness, guards to patrol the crofters’ fields, councillors to examine the harbors; but still refused to reveal her plan for handling the underlying threat; _one thing at a time,_ she insisted; _new moon, Angharad. I will know by new moon._

And so they continued, amidst the mutters of the court, the fears that crossed the faces of the servants, the gossip in the solar that tried, too hard, to be lighthearted, the pall that seemed to hang in the air even though the season was unusually hot and sun-bathed, the lengthening days as they moved toward midsummer filled with brilliant light.

It was almost _too_ bright, Angharad thought.

Like a candle, flaring just as you blow it out.

* * *

“A message from the queen, milady. She is in her chambers, and wishes to see you there after supper.”

Angharad exchanged a foreboding glance with Elen, and nodded to the page at her chamber door. “Very well. Tell her I will come.”

“Very good, milady.” He bowed and scampered off.

Elen shut the door and stood before it. “Are you going to tell me what’s in the wind and where you’ve been all day?”

Angharad sat on her bed to pull off a boot. She groaned internally; wished Elen would leave her alone; all she wanted was to lie down and cry the rest of the evening. “I _did_ tell you. I was at the cove again.”

“You might as well go live there,” Elen huffed, “with all the time you’ve been spending. But it’s not just that. The queen’s walking about like there’s a thundercloud over her head. And these rituals at unholy hours. You haven’t slept a full night in ten, and even when you do, you’re restless. And everyone whispering about quakes and monsters and I don’t even know what-all. What is all this magic for if it isn’t helping?”

“It is helping…a little,” Angharad answered carefully, standing up and handing over her tunic, as Elen shook out a clean gown. “Whatever’s going on just…seems a step ahead of us. But Mother keeps saying we’ll sort it out. That’s what all the rituals have been _about_ , you know - and my going to the shore. We need the supplies.” At least tonight there would be no ritual, after ten such sleepless. The queen had released them; a storm was coming, and there would be no gathering on the tower. Another thing that made her want to cry — with relief, in this instance.

“And now the queen wanting you in her chambers. That’s _never_ good,” Elen went on, ignoring her response, “and you always looking like you can’t decide _how_ to feel. I wish you’d tell me what’s on your mind. _Don’t sit there!”_

Arrested, Angharad sprang up just in time to stop from plunking onto the osier stool, where Elen had laid her needlework. A bristling pincushion sat, like a fat hedgehog, exactly in the middle. She winced at the thought of what she had avoided, and moved meekly back to her bed.

Elen glared at her triumphantly. “And _that!_ You come back from that cove so distracted you might as well be in another country. And it’s not from seabathing, that’s sure. What’s _happening_ out there?”

What, indeed. She asked herself that, every time she went.

“You’re doing it _now._ ” Elen’s sharp voice interrupted her thoughts, and Angharad gulped, and jerked her gown over her head hurriedly.

“Sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, Elen. But mother’s forbidden us to speak of what’s happening.”

Elen sat next to her, her face creased unhappily. “It’s more than that. I know you.”

Angharad bit her bottom lip to hold back the flood of confession that wanted to burst free. “I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can.” She reached for Elen’s hand, squeezed it comfortingly.

Elen shook her head. “I’m afraid for you. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if you were in any sort of trouble?”

“I’m not in trouble,” Angharad sighed, and forced a self-deprecating smile. “No more than usual.”

Grey eyes narrowed, glinting. “Would you _be_ in trouble,” Elen asked slowly, “if your mother knew what you were up to?”

This hit rather too near the mark. “I’m up to nothing awful, if that’s what you mean,” Angharad answered, a bit crisply, “and it’s on Mother’s _orders_ I go out so often. If there’s more to it, it’s my own affair, and nothing to concern yourself over.”She stood up, shaking out the folds of her gown. “I’m starving. Would you get me up something? I can’t stand the thought of going down to supper just now and having to listen to everyone.”

Elen knew a deflection when she saw one, and snorted as she rose. “All right. But I’m not done. If you won’t tell me I shall find out myself, if I have to follow you.”

“Don’t you da—” Angharad began, but Elen was gone, the door latch clicking shut upon her heels.

 _Blast._ She’d said too much to Elen; enough to give her suspicion. She’d already said _enough_ today, already broken the queen’s edict. She’d told Geraint everything that very afternoon; what was _wrong_ with her? 

She ought to have seen it coming, been more on her guard against her own weakness; it was perfectly clear by now that all her most disciplined methods of self-control were useless where he was concerned. Not only had she found it impossible to keep her distance - for practical reasons as much as anything; the increased magic and grove fires were eating through their supplies at a nearly unsustainable rate and she had been obliged to visit the cove nearly every other day since her conversation with Eilwen - she had found it equally impossible to keep her resolve to be cold and unemotional and discouraging toward him.

She could not help being glad in his presence; Geraint’s very existence somehow melted away all her resolutions in an instant. She spent her hours at the cove exulting in his sheer joy, marveling at his stories, laughing at his jokes - laughing a little too giddily, too readily, too long. His delight in making her laugh was readily apparent…as it was in impressing her with his myriad skills. The once-tumbledown little hut was fast becoming a self-reliant little homestead under his care; every time she returned, some new improvement to the structure or its grounds greeted her. Envious of his practical skills, she demanded to be taught certain of them, partially to distract him from questions about her own welfare at first, but then because she found she genuinely enjoyed learning.

When he was not being industrious with his environment he was busy composing new stories to tell her, practicing new illusions. He’d had a new performance ready that very morning, better even than the last; she had laughed and sighed and even shed tears over it. He had been elated, though he tried to hide it. She knew, by now, how to read his expressions. Sometimes too well. The moments of naked emotion she caught in his eyes, when she looked up after a silence had become awkwardly long, were more and more frequent.

Not to say that anything serious had happened. Geraint was careful…very careful. _Too careful_ , whispered a dissatisfied corner of her mind; she pushed it down. He had made no more veiled declarations; maintained a respectful distance whenever possible. He was _right_ , not to say or do anything that would give away this game they were playing; he knew it could come to nothing as well as she did and there was no use pretending otherwise. Let her hours with him be full of talk that took no risks - of his stories from his wanderings, of his latest accomplishment, of how to melt fish oil for lamps, how to sew leather, how to fire bricks. Her hours without him were full enough of imagining, in frustrated silence, all that she could only wish for.

But today had ended badly. He had run into ugly rumors during a visit into the village, and relayed them to her. Some of them were false, but there was enough truth to concern her. Unable to bear his misunderstanding, she had set about correcting certain things, and wound up, as in so much else with him, letting her guard fall far too much. She had told him all of it. The attack, the suspected power behind it, and the defenses they were trying to mount.

Geraint had been horrified, and demanded to know the same thing she had: why they were not ordering the people off the island. And she had had to repeat the same distasteful explanation that had so angered her in the first place; yet one she understood better even as it left her lips.

“It is no easy thing for an entire population to find a place to start over, in a strange land,” she’d said, pleaded even, for his disturbed, distrustful look cut at her heart. “Only Prydain is close enough to be a reasonable sanctuary. And though it is friendly as a neighbor, no people take kindly to being suddenly overrun. It would strain our relationship with them. Our ways our…measurably different.”

He could not argue this.

“Even if we neutralized the threat, and brought everyone back,” she went on, “which could take years - time on the mainland would have changed us. We’d bring back foreign ideas, other ways. We could cease to be Llyr at all.”

“Have you ever even spent any time with your own people?” he had asked, rather heatedly. “Their lives are of more value than their customs.”

She winced. “I didn’t say they weren’t. But…the people _are_ the kingdom. And our customs, our traditions…they are how we know ourselves. These things are _our_ story, Geraint,” she pleaded, trying to put it into terms he would understand. “You know that. It is not a thing to risk losing unless we must.”

He looked troubled, as though this point had found its mark but did not stay there comfortably, a conflict she knew well enough.She shook her head. “I know the High King would not refuse to aid us, despite the difficulty. I don’t understand why my mother refuses to contact him. I have thought of sending a message myself, without her knowledge, but she is too well-informed.”

He scowled. “It’s wrong. They look to you for protection; they trust you all implicitly. How can you allow them to stay unwittingly in danger?”

Her temper had flared at this, bright and hot, and she stood up and paced in agitation. “Do not presume to tell me my duty to my people. I have lived with it all my life, whether I would or no.” She halted her steps to stare at him pointedly. “Not all of us have the luxury of leaving when the position we are born into no longer suits us.”

Geraint had flushed, and looked away from her, his jaw tight. Sudden regret wormed its way into her breast, battling with indignation; why she was so concerned about one man’s good opinion? She gulped, took a breath, and steadied her voice. “When I told you, before, to be ready to leave quickly, it was for your safety. I should have insisted you go immediately, knowing what I knew.”

“Why didn’t you?”

His tone burned in her mind. It was a reasonable enough question, but it felt like an accusation. _Because I’m a selfish fool and I want you here always,_ she’d thought, recklessly, and fought down an urge to shout it at him. Instead she’d calmly told him of her assessment of his potential usefulness at taking a message from her to Caer Dathyl. Geraint had looked disappointed, and stiffened at mention of Gwydion.

“You seem very familiar with the Prince of Don.”

“We have a ‘diplomatic relationship’, as you would call it,” she had answered, some part of her feeling perversely pleased to see his discomfort, “but we are also friends, and he is a worthy and honorable man. He would start the journey here within a day if I asked it of him.” 

Resentment had turned his blue eyes dusky. “I wonder you haven’t already, then.”

It occurred to her that he had become very familiar with her indeed, to answer her so insolently. A remark such as this would have earned any other member of the populace severe consequences. It had made her, perhaps, less sympathetic than she might have been.

“Perhaps I ought to have,” she had said coolly. “But it’s taken you longer to repair your boat than I anticipated.”

Geraint had visibly flinched, and her heart dropped like a stone as he stood up and turned his back to her.“I see. It’s fortunate I’ve nearly finished gathering what I needed for it, then. I’ll get on it right away, so I can be of some use to you.”

She knew she had hurt him; the knowledge of it smote her, but anger still built a wall around any attempt at apology, and she did not know what to say that would not give away too much of what she felt. She had thanked him stiffly for the wood he had gathered, packed up the herbs she had collected, and hitched Tan to the loaded cart. Before she had left she noticed a change in the air, a shift in its direction and a salty, cold thread lacing it through the clefts in the cliffs, and pushed her mind outward, out into the endless water. “There’s going to be another storm tonight,” she had told him. “You should bring your fuel indoors.”

He had made no farewell, just tossed her one troubled glance and a quick bow, and she’d left, for the first time, less happy than she had arrived.

He was her one source of joy; and she had ruined it, perhaps, all for the sake of a quarrel that she practically _agreed_ with him about. Of _course_ they should be getting off the island, _all_ of them, and if he had been overly outspoken to her it was nothing she had not invited, by this time, by allowing him so many other liberties. It had been stupid to let it annoy her, petty of her to be piqued over what was clearly jealousy of Gwydion’s acquaintance. She could have laid his mind to rest on _that_ point, at any rate, though it wasn’t as though she owed him an explanation.

Angharad plunked back into her pillows with a shuddery sigh, and allowed herself the luxury of a few tears; might as well get them out before Elen came back. The world outside her window was darkening; the first tiptoeing droplets of rain danced tentatively across the glass and the wind moaned ominously through the shutter cracks. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck rose; lightning in this one, and coming soon. The very air felt thick with pent-up energy; despite her distress, a flutter of anticipation trembled within her.

She was just in the mood for a good storm. It would be a spectacular one tonight.


	11. Chapter 11

_No parting cloud reveals a watery star,_

_My cries are washed away upon the wind,_

_My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar,_

_My eyes with hope o’erstrained, are growing blind._

~Amy Lowell

* * *

Chapter Eleven

The queen’s chambers were a study in opulence, lit by warm lamplight that glimmered on the surfaces of polished marble and winked from the whirls and corners of silver ornamentation. Thick woolen carpet, woven in spiraling patterns, muffled the fall of intruding footsteps. Heavy velvet curtains and rich tapestries softened the stone walls, the color crimson predominant and potent.

Though her own chambers were luxurious enough in comparison to most, Angharad had always entered her mother’s with awe and hushed reverence; she did not relish the thought of relocating to them herself someday. When she was a young child she had overheard Regat, just after her coronation, murmuring to Arianrhod that it was difficult to sleep there, due to the dreams it induced. Vivid, visceral, often disturbing dreams already being common to all the Daughters of Llyr, the idea that anything could make them even _more_ disruptive had not endeared Angharad to the environment, or resigned her to her inevitable future occupancy. Both her mother and aunt insisted that dreams were important, and not something to be avoided regardless of discomfort. Perfectly true, no doubt; it was an adage applicable to many details of her life, but no less disquieting. It wasn’t just the anticipation of such dreams, however, that made her ambivalent; these rooms held an aura oppressive in potency, as though their rounded walls had soaked in the overflowed enchantments of their generations of residents until the very stones sweated out magic upon their cold surfaces.

Regat was sitting before the fire when she entered, writing something upon a lapdesk; the small table next to her couch was laid with neatly stacked and sealed parchments and a white marble inkwell whose spotlessness seemed to glare Angharad in the eye, reminding her, with irritating irony, of the smudges that always marred her own anytime she wrote. A councillor stood nearby, sealing wax and candle in hand; he bowed to the princess silently.

The queen laid down her quill and folded her document slowly and deliberately, held it out to be sealed, and pressed her signet ring into the scarlet wax. “That’s the last,” she declared. “They are to go out to the mainland tomorrow, as soon as the storm clears. One per courier, first ship that can accommodate the horses. Impress upon all that time is of the essence.”

“Very good, Your Majesty.” The man gathered up documents and implements and was dismissed without ceremony. Angharad barely noticed the door closing behind him; she was too uneasy at the lack of anyone else in the room - her mother was rarely without her ladies-in-waiting, but they must have been sent away for the moment, and the fact of their absence seemed…ominous.

Regat motioned toward the lamp nearest and it dimmed instantly; she put a hand to her eyes, thumb and fingertips pressing against her temples briefly. “Please sit, Angharad. I must speak with you.”

Angharad sank into the other end of the couch, willing herself not to fidget. “Headache? What was all that? You must have been writing for hours.”

“I was. It is too sensitive a matter for the scribes,” Regat said, looking at her solemnly. “Angharad,” she began, and then hesitated, as though unwilling. Angharad waited, silent, her heart pounding. Regat looked away from her, and stared at the fire. “What I have to tell you will not be to your liking, daughter. Indeed, it is far from my own. I would far rather circumstances were different, and that this step is one you would have taken in your own time - within reason.”

Angharad swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “What step? I don’t…”

“You are coming into your full power,” Regat went on quickly, “as is natural, at your age. You cannot have failed to notice it yourself. The timing is opportune for you to marry, and you must do so without delay - you will wed an enchanter, as the law requires, and fulfill your duty to the kingdom.”

 _“What?”_ Angharad sat bolt upright, and every lamp in the room sputtered. The fire in the hearth popped loudly; sparks flurried in, dangerously close to the carpet. Regat quelled them with a quick wave of her hand, and gave her daughter a severe look. “Control yourself. What are you—”

“I don’t want to marry a—,” Angharad choked on her own horror, and leapt to her feet. “I don’t…I won’t marry a man I’ve never even met.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the queen said sternly. “You will meet every eligible man who presents himself here for your hand. And I advise you to be civil to them at the very least — for your own sake if no one else’s. Insulting your consort is no way to begin a marriage.”

“You know what I mean,” Angharad sputtered. “How could you—? _Now?_ Why _now?_ I won’t do it.”

“You will do,” Regat said, “whatever you must.”

Angharad stood stunned, her eyes upon the carpet at her feet - a spiral, crimson against a golden ground, swirling outward in an endless loop…or was it swirling inward? It swam in her vision, dizzying; she was being pulled, downward, to a crushing, drowning central point from which there was no escape.

 _“I will not wed a complete stranger,”_ she said again, in a voice that sounded like someone else’s; surely it _must_ be someone else’s, because this was impossible that she should be standing here, listening to her future laid out like the sentencing of a convicted prisoner. No, it must be someone else’s voice, because she was screaming — or maybe that was just howl of the storm raging outside, the wind shrieking around the tower and hurling rain against the windows in fury.

“Angharad, we have discussed this before.”

She dragged her eyes away from that sinuous red whirlpool to look at her mother. “You never told me I had no choice in the matter. Isn’t it enough that nearly everything about my life was laid out before my birth? Must I now have my husband chosen for me?”

Regat shrugged almost imperceptibly. “Of course not. You are free to choose your own husband, of course, provided you choose someone with suitable qualifications.”

“It seems to me that one of the qualifications should be that we love each other,” Angharad retorted.

“Desirable,” said Regat. “In fact, quite powerful, if it can be arranged. But in matters of state, not always practical.”

Always practicality, wielded like a weapon. “I don’t understand the urgency,” Angharad cried. “Don’t we have enough to concern ourselves with?”

Her mother sighed. “Those concerns are the very _reason_ for the urgency. You _know_ the difficulty, what we are fighting. We need a greater concentration of power, wherever it comes from; and moreover it is imperative that any suitor not be aware of the conditions we are under. No rational man would want to set foot into the middle of this, so it must happen sooner rather than later, if things do not improve.” She looked suddenly exhausted, but her dark gaze was immovable. “Marriage is a strategic alliance, daughter, not the romance in nursery tales. Ideally, yours will serve to add an additional layer of defense to the island, and possibly shore up weaknesses in areas our magic does not serve.”

“Who on earth could add anything we need?” Angharad demanded desperately. “Enchanters are a dying breed. There are none on the island of any note; barely any in Prydain. Even you said only Dallben has power greater than what we saw. Do you expect _him_ to propose?”

Regat, unamused, ignored this. “There are those with power enough - particularly if it is in areas where we cannot be as effective. It is only a matter of finding them, and providing the right enticements.”

Cold fury prickled down Angharad’s spine, rose the hair on her neck. “Thank you. It’s delightful, knowing I’m to be dangled like a carrot before a horse. Isn’t that exactly the sort of thing you so despise about their approach on the mainland?”

“Do not be overdramatic, Angharad,” the queen commanded wearily. “By enticements I meant the life to which a consort agrees. The conditions of that life are yours to dictate, but if you expect to make a worthy match, you will make them advantageous, and allow him to believe he has some control over them. Men do not willingly subjugate themselves to a woman.”

 _Is this what we have become?_ Suddenly Angharad pitied her forgotten father from the depths of her being, pitied every man who had never stood on his own two feet and looked her in the face like a…like a _man_. _This is so terribly wrong._ “I suppose it has never occurred to you that a marriage could be a happy companionship between equals,” she said bitterly.

Regat looked mildly surprised. “Of course it can. The people marry as they please, and live as equals - here, at least. But we do not have that luxury. Any suitor for your hand must know, from the outset, where he will stand. A consort may share opinions about state and family affairs, and should you be fortunate enough to find a man with any sense, his opinion may even carry weight. But your word alone shall be the authority.” She grimaced. “There have been those, in the past, who overstepped their positions. The outcomes were never pleasant - least of all, for them. It is a caution and a kindness to make it clear that, in the end, you will be the ruler of this land and its people - including him.”

It must be true; it had been so for generations, and they had prospered. So why did it sound so _horrid?_ Perhaps it was just her mother’s hard, unemotional way of expressing it. Had Regat _ever_ been young, ever known anything of passion or emotion? What had _happened_ to her to make her so cold, so near-bereft of any sympathy - was it the strain of being monarch? the burden of responsibility and expectation, the subjugation of her own desires to the weight of a crown?

_This, then, is my future._

She felt sick.

“I am sending couriers to the mainland, to the various strongholds where magic is still practiced,” Regat continued calmly, as though discussing the details of a celebratory feast she had ordered, “with messages to request, among the eligible, that those with interest in your hand present themselves at court for appraisal. It will take time, of course, both for the word to go out and for any potential suitors to make the journey here. We shall bide until the end of summer if we can. Anyone who takes longer than that isn’t interested or powerful enough, and we have no time to waste.”

The queen stood, and moved heavily to the casement. “I do not make such decisions lightly, Angharad. It does not please me to rely on the power of any man, nor do I wish to deny you all chance of happiness. When you have done your duty in regard to marriage, you may take your pleasure where you will. But in this time of crisis, we must make decisions that would be…unthinkable, otherwise.” She stood, her back to her daughter, her face to the window as though she would gaze out, but nothing was visible through the glass; nothing but black night and the fragments of raindrops shattered against the panes. Silence, thick and ominous, settled upon them both.

Finally Angharad spoke again, shakily. “This…this cannot be your only plan. Mother, what are you thinking? It’s nearly new moon. You’ve been putting me off for a fortnight; you must know something by now.”

Regat said nothing for a long time, her face still toward the window. Long trails of rain streamed down its outer surface, scarlet as blood in the lamplight.

“This magic we are fighting,” the queen murmured finally, “bears a certain signature. Not one I have seen before, but one we have been…warned against, Arianrhod and I.”

“I was there,” Angharad reminded her. “I know what Arianrhod thought. You said Achren could not— ”

“She cannot,” Regat interrupted, “but the similarity is too suspect. It was she who taught Arawn much of what he knows, before he betrayed her. If the attack indeed is his doing, then this is exactly what we would expect to find - a power heavy with her influence.”

“Well, what of it? We already suspected him.”

“Do you not see?” Regat turned to look at her. In the lamplight the queen’s face shone red on one side, the other carved in sharp black shadows. “He scorned her, and she loathes him. Now he uses her magic to besiege us. If there is anyone, anywhere, who might best know how to defeat this attack, and would have the will and the reason to aid us…”

Angharad’s breath caught, clutched by a cold grip. Dread spread fingers of ice over her scalp, down her neck and shoulders. “You cannot be serious.”

The queen turned back to the dark window. “I have already sent a message to her, offering her certain terms for her assistance.”

Thunder rumbled. Or was it her own pulse, pounding in her ears? “Mother…this…” Angharad groped for the couch and sank into it. “ _This_ is what you have been waiting for? This is madness. How can you even think of trusting Achren? How do you even know where she is?”

“There are ways,” Regat muttered. “She is never subtle, and makes little effort to hide.” She glanced at her own hands and looked away quickly, and Angharad thought she saw her wince. “There are spells unknown to you as yet…that have gone unneeded, blessedly forgotten, for generations. I would they had remained so. But we must all do what we must.”

 _“No.”_ Angharad rose again from the chair, crossed to her mother and took her hand. The queen pulled it away, but not before she had seen it: a red line, barely healed, in an ugly-shaped rune that marred the palm.

“Dark magic, Mother?” she gasped, horror-filled. “How could you?”

“Angharad,” the queen sighed, clasping her hands together, hiding the evidence of what she had done. “There is an old adage. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ None loathes Arawn or seeks his end as fiercely as Achren. She may not have been an ally, but neither did she ever threaten Llyr. She shares certain of our…sympathies and concerns, after all. What happened to Prydain serves as a warning for us. She was despised for the crime of being a woman.”

“She was despised for being a bloody wicked tyrant,” Angharad retorted. Anger shot through her in a white-hot wave; her hands balled into fists. “Which, I suspect, is as offensive in a woman as in a man. Or have you forgotten all of which she was accused? The abject slavery for all those who dared question her…her flagrant display of luxury while her people died of starvation and plague?”

“Enough, Angharad…”

“Profane magic? _Blood sacrifice—_ ”

_“Enough.”_

Regat whirled on her, eyes blazing and face flushed; her hand raised as though to strike, though she checked herself in time. The rune blazed crimson on her white palm. They stared at each other; mother and daughter, dark and light; the air around them crackled with magic, an angry, consuming energy struggling to break free.

The queen lowered her hand slowly. Her gaze did not waver. _“You will not question me in this.”_ It was a hoarse, grating whisper. “This is our kingdom. I will do whatever I must to defend it. Gainsay me, and you will answer for it.” She took a long breath. “Or would you rather see it fall?”

Angharad barely heard her; she took an uncertain step backward. The room seemed to be turning on its side, the walls swelling closer. Red mist rose in her vision, blinding; an acrid, metallic taste filled her mouth, as though that unnatural fire they battled under the earth had broken through here, around them, in the very heart of the kingdom. She could not breathe, could not stay, could not _look_ at her own mother for one more moment or she would…would…

A brilliant flash of light burst into the room suddenly, followed almost instantly by a clap of thunder so loud it shook the glass in its lead framing. The floor trembled beneath her feet as she stumbled back again, back and back; she fell against the door and groped for the latch.

She heard her mother call her name as the door swung open, tumbling her into the corridor; knew Regat would follow so she ran…not to her chambers, no, she would go nowhere she could be followed, nowhere she would have to speak to anyone. Where—?

Out. Out of the castle; she must get _out_ …not through the gates; no one would open the gates now, at this hour, in this weather. She stumbled down spiral stairwells, down into the belly of the fortress where no torches lit the way, pulled out the Pelydryn and let its golden light careen off the stone walls. Down and out, past the kitchens, the oven-fires banked for the night; there was a door, a small, unobtrusive exit that led to the rubbish heaps. It slammed behind her, pushed by a gust of raging air that raked through her hair and pummeled her with raindrops she did not feel. Through the courtyard, through the rain and an old, old grate over a secret passageway through the outer wall; a grate that only a Daughter of Llyr could unlock. A hand on the stone, a breath and a turning-within; the stone moved, rippled, flowed and the grate swung open. She was under the wall, through it, beyond it; she was free.

She almost laughed, but it was bitter, and turned back on itself, into a sob. _Free_. Not she, never; she was chained to this castle, invisibly, inexorably; her own birthright was the tether and she a wild horse, being pulled back with a bone-rattling jerk as she tried to run. _I didn’t ask for this._

Lightning flashed again, struck the horizon ahead of her, straight into the distant dark water; it burned into her vision, a tree of light, of fire, connecting sky to sea: Belin and Llyr at war, or was it simply a game to them, this chaos? What did the gods care? Did they hear the cries of frightened children, the anguish of sailors caught in the tempest, the groan of trees in the wind? Did they think of what the world would look like in the morning, the devastation and the wreck? or did the rush of power, the glory and ecstasy of storm and gale simply overwhelm them, drown out the rest, only noted later once their energies were spent, and then…then the consequences were what they were.

The light flashed again, shook her, filled her mind and her spirit and her blood; it rushed through her limbs and fingertips. She ran, full of fire and thunder, toward the roaring sea.


	12. Chapter 12

_Maybe you are the sea_

_and I am a storm_

_that rages on it._

_…and all we ever do_

_is dance_

_until the salt_

_and the rain_

_get mixed up_

_again._

~Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

Chapter Twelve

He was a fool.

That was all. A fool, and he should leave as soon as possible, so as not to torment himself any further, not to keep pining away like a bawling bull-calf for a woman he had no right to love, no right even to _look at_. If it weren’t for that blasted boat still being a useless shell he’d leave as soon as this storm cleared. He had put them off, the repairs - though he had never admitted, even to himself, that he had delayed them deliberately to avoid the possibility of leaving, despite her cryptic warnings.

But there was no point in wasting another moment of his life on this island. He could, of course, be of use. He owed her that much; he could take her warning to the Sons of Don, to that blasted prince she was so fond of and then, having fulfilled his obligation and paid his debt, he could excise her from his thoughts, until she were a mere memory, no weightier than any other.

Geraint tossed another chunk of dry turf on the fire with a grunt. It had been so much easier when he’d had no one to care for but himself. He could find that again; that carefree wandering, untethered, unconcerned, going along with whatever way the wind blew him. Only perhaps not to sea again; that treacherous thing that had lured him here, trapped him, surrounded him…enraptured him.

Now it mocked him. It would never stop reminding him of her. He would never go near it again.

The wind shrieked outside, tore at the thatched roof. He laughed out loud, bitterly. All that work. What for? Perhaps after he was gone she could find some homeless fisherman to move back in to this place…no, she wouldn’t. This was _her_ cove; she came here to be alone. He had disrupted her solitude; she would be happier, too, maybe, when he’d left. _She_ could use this hut, then, to take shelter if it rained, until his improvements failed, fell apart from neglect. Unwittingly, and not for the first time, an image of her sitting here, before the fire, burned into his mind’s eye. Sharing his bread. Listening, rapt, to his stories. Smiling that wry smile. Laughing her surprised laugh. The firelight, glittering in her hair, reflecting, golden, in her eyes, gilding her skin.

 _Stop._ He pulled his mind back from its inevitable trajectory, the dangerous visions that filled his dreams and robbed him of sleep. Torture, exquisite torture — another thing he would be free of without the constant threat of her presence.

Thunder crashed, close and startling; no, it wasn’t thunder; it was his own door; someone was pounding on it. Geraint leaped up in alarm. A voice cried, faint over the wind and rain, familiar; his heart pounded at his throat as he flew to the door and threw it open, all his anger forgotten.

Angharad stood in the doorway. She was pale, breathless, and drenched; the hem of her gown was in muddy tatters, shoes ragged, hair unbound and streaming; but it was her eyes – wild, flashing desperate, dangerous fire – that drove all the rules from his mind; he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her inside, out of the storm.

“Are you _mad?_ What were you _thinking,_ coming out in this?” Fear made him rougher than he intended; he pushed her onto his wicker stool and wrapped a blanket over her shoulders, reaching for a branch to stoke up the fire. She grabbed his arm and made an impatient gesture toward the hearth; the flames leapt up, roaring, throwing heat and light into the room. Geraint, arrested, dropped the branch, cursing his own uselessness under his breath.

Angharad threw off the blanket. “I’m not cold,” she said, in a voice that made him blanch.

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m not—,”

“You’re _soaked._ ” Geraint looked away from her, his throat tight; she had no cloak or wrap of any kind and the sodden cling of her garments left little to the imagination. He heard her sigh.

“It doesn’t bother me, you know.” She murmured something incomprehensible, and when he turned to look at her again she was as dry as he was, the last beads of moisture sparkling like jewels set in the fiery waves of her hair.

He took a breath, measured and slow. “You could have been killed out there. The lightning—how did Tan even—”

“I walked,” she interrupted, and he gaped, staring at her.

“You _what?_ ”

Angharad stared back, unrepentant. Her face had lost its pallor; instead she looked flushed, but it may have been only the firelight. Her goddess mien was upon her, in the tilt of her head and the flash of her eyes. “Actually, I ran. Go ahead,” she challenged him. “Say it. I’m reckless and foolish.”

“Reckless, yes,” he allowed. “Not foolish. I suppose you have a reason.”

“I do.” She stood up, paced the small room in agitation, stopped before the hearth, her arms wrapped across her chest protectively. “I just…oh, Geraint, I’ve just…” She clamped both hands to her face, as though she had only just realized something horrifying. “I’ve just fought with my mother.” Her eyes widened.“I’ve _fought_ with my _mother_.”

Geraint checked a temptation toward feeling somewhat relieved; she looked too distressed; perhaps opposing one’s mother was another thing forbidden on Llyr, all the more when one’s mother was the queen.“Haven’t you ever argued before?”

“Of course we have,” she blurted out. “But not like this, not…” She broke off, staring through him at nothing, unnerving him, and then took a breath. “She says I must wed by the end of the summer.”

The bottom of his chest seemed to drop away, plummeting heart and breath to some dark abyss. It took a long, painful moment to retrieve them. He opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, clenched his jaw; his voice strained through his gritted teeth like a thief through a locked gate. “Wed whom?”

Her eyes, full of forbidden, unspoken things, focused on his face. “I don’t know,” she gasped out, “I don’t _know_. I must wed an enchanter. It is the law. And I don’t…” Her voice broke again, and she did not finish the thought. “She is sending couriers to the mainland to draw out anyone eligible. I shall be forced to choose one…some man I have never met, never heard of until that moment.” She covered her face and turned her back to him, as if afraid of what he might see, and Geraint clenched his fists in an agony of impotent fury. If rage alone could slay from a distance, every unsuspecting mage within a week’s journey would have dropped dead in the moment.

He stood helpless, staring at her back, painfully silent - there was nothing he could say; nothing that would not give away everything, that would not cross every boundary he had so carefully and unwillingly maintained between them. Why had she come tonight to tell him this? It had always been her destiny, no matter how they had both ignored it; nothing had changed except its immediacy. Why come here _now -_ just to torture him with the knowledge that it must be sooner rather than later? What on earth did she want _him_ to do about it? He could make no claim to or for her, could not change the law; he was nothing to her. He should have left weeks ago, should have listened to that inner warning that staying would bring trouble upon them both. When had he grown so weak?

Angharad stood frozen, her shoulders stiff and curled over as though she were in physical pain; Geraint yearned to reach out to her, and hated the unknown man destined to do so with every fiber of his being, hated himself for not being more, for not being worthy of her. Thunder rumbled and the rain beat against the shutters and door, filling the void of their silence. After a long moment she turned back to him, lowering her hands, her face pale and drawn once more. “There is more,” she muttered. “Does the name Achren mean anything to you?”

Icy spiders ran down his spine, but it was a relief to be able to answer _some_ thing. “I am a collector of stories,” he murmured, “but...there are those I would like to forget.”

“How much do you know of her?”

“Enough to hope that the stories are false.”

Angharad looked miserable. “Let us assume they are not. I can imagine little worse than the truths I know.” She twisted her hands into her skirts. “My mother seeks an alliance with her.”

Geraint stared, mute with dismay. She pressed her temples between her palms, her breath audible even above the wind shrieking outside. “It is madness, Geraint. It is death to this island, to all of us, and I cannot make her see it. It’s as though she’s lost all reason."

Her hands shook. He had never seen her afraid. “What can she possibly hope to accomplish?” he asked slowly.

“Protection. Defense. Information about the attack; direction on how to fight it.” Angharad glared into the fire. “None hates Arawn so much as Achren. And despite what he did to her, she does still have a little power. I know Mother believes she would welcome an opportunity to break free of his chains and avenge herself upon him. Our combined strength could do it, perhaps, but...at what cost?” She shook her head. “She cannot be trusted. Even Mother knows that. Yet she risks all on this – even our friends.” She looked at him, her face a heartbreaking mix of anger, fear, betrayal. “If the High King learns of this it will destroy our alliance with Prydain.”

Geraint’s heart sank again. “Then it really is madness.”

Angharad, to his amazed alarm, suddenly choked on a sob. “I don’t...I don’t know what to do,” she gasped. Her eyes were wide, frightened as a lost child’s, brimming with tears; he could not bear it. Instinctively he reached for her trembling hands, pulling them from her face and clasping them tightly.

He might have wondered what to do next, but she saved him from it, the moment he touched her she tumbled heavily into him like a breaker against the cliffs; without thinking he dropped her hands to hold all of her instead.

Except...a man cannot hold the sea, or the sun, or the fire on the hearth, or that thing outside that was lashing and splitting the darkness into blinding splintering cracks, for that matter; and for a moment he knew nothing at all, blinded and deafened by forces he could not name. Buffeted, he nearly stumbled; somewhere in the assault he shrank to nothing but fierce determination to _hold on._ He could not feel her physical form at all, but she must be there, and if all he were was an anchoring pair of arms, then so he must be.

Slowly, the roaring in his ears faded to the - more familiar, though not exactly comforting - roaring of the storm outside. Thunder growled and firelight flickered and Angharad was there in his arms, solid and warm and flesh-and-blood, with her face buried in his shoulder and her hands clutching at his shirt. The erratic quaking of her ribs told him she was still fighting back tears. 

Fearless Angharad, weeping. It seemed an offense against nature, one warranting the surge of hot, protective anger that flooded him. “What can I do?” he murmured. “Shall I travel to Caer Dathyl and warn the Sons of Don, as you planned?I could trade for a boat in Abernant, and be off as soon as I can.”

“No,” she said, muffled against his shoulder. “They can’t know of this; they’ll…” she broke off suddenly in another sob. “They’ll never trust us again. Math might set himself against Mother, try to depose her. Gwydion will think... I can’t…” She pounded a fist against his chest in anguish, groaning, “I can’t be caught in the middle of this.”

But she was. He knew it, and knew there was nothing to be done; his heart was bursting and wild thoughts turned themselves into words that tumbled from his lips before he could stop them. “Come away with me, then.” He tightened his arms, turning until his cheek cradled the warm curve of her head and her hair shone before his eyes in blurred strands of golden fire. “If there is no way to stop this, then escape it; leave this and come with me.”

She stilled suddenly as though holding her breath, and the mad, impossible words kept pouring out, desperate. “I can make us both disappear; I know how; I’ll take you far from here and we can—”

Angharad stiffened; she raised her head suddenly and pushed away just enough to look him in the face. Her eyes blazed; her lips parted in a sharp inhale; she looked furious. He cut himself off, horrified by his foolishness. _Idiot!_ What _possessed_ him to—

But then she kissed him, full on the mouth, and thought fled entirely.

* * *

She hadn’t planned on _this._

Not even when she’d realized that her blind run had brought her to the cove, to his door, though she had not been surprised. She did not know why she had come here - only that it had seemed, somehow, the only place to go.

But this…this _madness_ , no… this was not planned, not in words or even thoughts she would have admitted to anyone but herself. Yet something about it felt inevitable. Some thread of fate, woven into the pattern of her life the first time he had met her eyes with that bold azure gaze and laughed in the face of her authority.

Maybe it _was_ fated. It would be easy to lay blame on forces beyond her control. Or perhaps it was a counterpoint, within her, to the glorious fury of that storm that was raging outside; or just...oh, maybe it _was_ just rebellious impulse, and _so what if it was;_ what else was there, now, when duty and reason and caution had left her with empty hands? For once, she might possess something _good_ for no more complicated reason than just...wanting it. Wanting _him. All_ of him, his simple joy and his careless freedom, the bright enthusiasm that washed over her in his presence, filling her up with everything she had not known she lacked. How had she lived before he came? _How would she live when he had gone?_

Too consumed by her own distress to heed anything else, she had barely realized what was happening, did not know he had touched her until she was in his arms, and had come back to herself with shock at how wildly strange it felt to be held by a man; it was almost frightening, this much strength and breadth and warmth. Strange and yet ...perfect. Comforting and yet unsettling; heart pounding, she had let herself stay there, on the edge, anticipatory of something unknown.

His words were strange, too: murmured rough, they broke into her mind, clumsy and desperate like too-eager pilgrims into a sacred space, bearing all their implications in shadowed arms. For an instant she wondered if he had really said them, and some fragment of her that still clung to the shreds of her self-control tried to be outraged. But it was a futile effort, buried beneath an onslaught of desperate desire, a tidal wave that crushed the thought _impossible_ under a relentless flood of _yes…please, yes._

It wasn’t possible, but...but she could pretend it was, for a little while.

When she kissed him Geraint froze; she felt his shock in the rigidity of his arms — the last reluctant protest of, perhaps, better judgement— before his control crumbled. She knew it would; he was already familiar, his response merely the outward expression of the hunger in every unguarded look she’d intercepted for weeks. And oh, it was a relief, _finally_ , to set it free…

He kissed her ravenously, crushed her against him as though afraid she would melt away. Maybe she would anyway; it felt that way, that this liquid heat surging through her blood and between her bones in dizzying waves would consume her, leaving nothing but whatever he held fast. The rest would burn to ashes, and so she clung to him, to salvage whatever of herself would survive the refining.

Suddenly he broke away, gasped and tried to speak.

“You can’t…”

She cut him off, swallowed his muted surprise.

Another break; he tried again. “Are you sure…”

“Don’t _talk._ ” She almost laughed at the sound of her own voice, the outraged growl of a wolf threatened with having its dinner confiscated; _mine_ , she thought, and laced her curled fingers through his hair like possessive claws, pulling him in. If sunlight had a taste, it was _this_ golden heat of his mouth, pouring into her, chasing all the spaces where words would have formed and filling them willingly, a generosity that did nothing to satiate her. 

He had no further objections. Questions, perhaps; many questions that he managed to ask without speech, questions that his hands and his mouth and his body and breath asked for him; she denied him not a single, intoxicating answer. Even in his barely-checked urgency, he was as eloquent at this wordless, explorative story as he was at all the others she had grown to love; she as rapt and willing an audience...no, a participant; in this story she had as much to say to him, in the fevered touch of skin to skin, the breathless murmured sounds pushed from the throats of those whose lips and tongues had found worthier pursuits than turning them into words, the sinuous dance of melding planes against curves, hard against soft, tearing away barriers, along with any notion of being separate things. 

There came a moment when a sudden, deafening crash of thunder startled them both; a pause that forced a coherent acknowledgement of what was unfolding. Angharad caught her breath, vaguely noting that the flames in the hearth were blazing unnaturally bright and hot for a turf fire, and dampened them with a hasty mental jerk. The room was filled with light of a familiar golden cast; the Pelydryn, having ignited apparently of its own accord, had tumbled from its pocket and lay, among sundry other of their personal articles, somewhere at their feet, glowing like a fallen star.

Geraint seemed to notice neither; his gaze never left her; she felt him brace himself as a man might stand against a wind that sought to drag him away. “This should stop now,” he whispered, his breath ragged against her neck, “if you don’t—,”

She answered him decisively. Outside the gale tore at the shutters; thunder growled again: the voice of the storm, without and within. She heard it; welcomed it; it was breathtaking and beautiful in its unbridled power, exultant, a union of forces beyond control or conscious will. 

Let it spend itself however it would.

* * *

“Come away with me,” he whispered again, much later, into her hair.

She had no reserves left to stop the tear that trickled over her cheek, splashing to his bare shoulder. “I cannot.” She read his discontent in his silence. “I cannot leave my place or my people, Geraint. I am not free as you are.”

He pressed her hand to his chest until his heartbeat thumped against her palm. She felt his ribs rise as he sighed, “But I am free no longer. I am a willing prisoner of the Princess of Llyr, in thrall to her enchantments. It’s an impressive-sounding predicament, isn’t it?”

Angharad smiled in spite of herself.“I hope you feel you’ve been well-treated.”

He laughed at this, a sudden surprised bark, and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make so light of things…”

“No, _please.”_ She twisted upon the pallet where they lay, rose on her elbow to look him in the face. “Please, make light of everything you can. But for you I see nothing but darkness.” She sighed, a long shuddering breath. “I am so tired of darkness.”

She stared at the firelight edging his cheek and jaw, memorizing their angles, the golden play of it in his hair. His thumb traced an invisible line over her lips and chin. “If you cannot leave,” he whispered, “then I will stay. No matter what happens.”

Another tear spilled out; whether of gratitude or grief she did not know. She let him pull her back down next to him and buried her face in the warm hollow between his shoulder and ear. “You should not. Not for my sake.” Her voice shook. “I must wed an enchanter, or watch my land be torn apart. It may happen anyway, no matter what I do. There is no future here for the two of us.”

“Then why did you come here tonight?” His tone was curious, not accusatory.

She sighed. “I needed you.”

“I will stay,” he said, “for as long as you need me.”

He held her, a long time, while she wept.


	13. Chapter 13

_a revelation made_

_upon waking - that my_

_Dreams were fashioned_

_to wear your face._

~Katrina Harms

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

It was still dark when she awoke. It was the stillness that woke her. After the rush of wind and rain that had deadened her ears for hours to anything else, now there was only the muffled sound of surf, a crumbling murmur - soothing and familiar, though louder than she was accustomed to hearing upon waking. She blinked in the darkness, her mind in a fog, confused; this was not her room; she knew by the smell, by the feel, it was different; it was wrong; where was — oh.

_Oh._

Angharad sat up with a gasp, in a flash of memory, sharply aware of the heavy arm that slid from around her waist and thumped softly behind her. The owner of the arm mumbled something unintelligible that trailed off, and she crept away, shivering, groping across the floor. There was a pile of wool and linen roughly where she remembered it should be, though she could make no sense of it in the darkness; something round and smooth at last bumped her forearm through the cloth and she clutched it gratefully. The Pelydryn flickered into warmth, its light muted and dim by her own will, but there was enough of it to gather up the heap of fabric, shake it out, and navigate which bits of her went where. She wrestled her garments on and tied what laces she could reach with trembling fingers; once decently attired she took a deep breath and turned to examine where she’d been.

Oh, _Rhiannon._ Somehow seeing it made it all real; the rumpled pallet and the blanket-shrouded shape that was Geraint, still asleep, his body curled around the empty space from which she had crawled, one bare arm flung out over it as if to shield it from prying eyes. Her heart raced, breath caught; she wanted nothing more than to creep right back into that warm circle, curl herself into it and rest there until…oh, forever, as long as she was wishing for the impossible. No…no, she must get home; doubtless she had been missed by this time; perhaps now that the storm was over she would even be searched for. She would have been quite happy never to be found, but her mother knew her too well; if anyone were sent out they would know to look for her at the cove, and if Geraint was found there before she could stop them…

In mounting panic Angharad cast about for her shoes; found them and stared in dismay; there was nothing left of them. Her wild rush through the storm last night had left them in ribbons; how would she get…wait. Her self-made shoes. Where did he keep them?

She struggled to her feet and raised the light over her head to illuminate the hut. There - in the corner, on the other side of the pallet. Creeping around the sleeping Geraint, she snatched them up, making little noise, but it was enough; he stirred, turned, opened eyes clouded with drowsy confusion, and focused on her.

She paused, holding her breath, watched comprehension dawn on his face, and whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He took her in slowly: clothed, shoes in hand. “You would have left without telling me?” He sat up, pushed his tumbled curls out of troubled eyes.

“I would have left you word of some kind.”

“Then you’re not…not sorry…”

She could not bear his uncertainty. She cupped his face in her hands, kissed him again for an answer, long and longingly. His arms went around her, hungry, inviting; she pushed him away, finally, with a sigh that was almost a whimper. “I’ve got to get back. I’ll have been missed since the storm. If anyone starts looking for me this is the first place they’ll come.”

Geraint glanced toward the door. “It’s not even daylight.” 

“Thank Belin for that. If I’d slept that long we’d both be caught.” She shut her mouth grimly, fumbling with her shoelaces.

“Well, I’m not going to let you walk back alone in the dark,” he declared, throwing off the blankets. “I don’t care how independent the women of Llyr are.”

Angharad made no argument as he dressed. She did not want to leave him at all; his accompanying her would, at least, postpone parting. “You’ve got to turn back when I tell you,” she said finally, “and no arguments. You must not get within sight of the towers.”

He nodded, and seemed for the first time to notice the glowing sphere in her hand, perplexed. “What is that?”

“A treasure of Llyr. The Golden Pelydryn. Didn’t you wonder where the light was coming from all night?”

He looked baffled. “I suppose I thought it was just the fire.” A grin, rakish. “I’ve been a bit distracted, you know. What did you call it?”

She blushed, repeated the name, and held it out to him; he took it, turned it in his hand. The golden light danced over his features. “It is beautiful,” he murmured. “What is it for?”

“I’ll tell you while we walk,” she answered pointedly, taking it back, and Geraint sighed and pushed the door open.

“After you, milady.”

He swept her a bow, then caught her as she made to pass him, pinning her against the doorframe. It was some time before she could admonish him, in a low growl, “I believe I told you recently to call me by my name.”

“You did. Emphatically. I wasn’t sure if you meant all the time,” he muttered into her breath, “or just when—”

She cut him off, muffling a chest-deep laugh against his smile. Oh, _Llyr,_ she could not leave him, could _not_ go back to that gilded prison of a castle…

With a strangled noise of frustrated desperation she pulled back; avoided his gaze by looking anxiously at the sky. The cliffs to the east stood black against it; it was not so dark as it might be, and no stars shone out. “Geraint, please. I’ll return, I swear it. But if we are caught here I shall have nothing to return to.” Her breath turned into a sob at her throat, and he let her go reluctantly, shutting the door behind them.

“What good is it being royalty if you can’t do what you please?” he muttered, in a tone that sounded like he was trying to joke. It failed. Angharad choked on another sob and coughed it out as a bitter laugh.

“It’s no good at all.”

They trudged up the trail to the highland in silence. She could not calm her thoughts enough to speak any one of them sensibly; they all tumbled over each other in a sickening, roiling pile of uncertain demands; the question _what now?_ seemed always to find its way to the top, staring at her. She did not want to look at it, did not want to think about how she was leaving the unthinkable-already-done to return to that which was more unthinkable still: her future, waiting, in all its myriad manifestations of horror, like a multi-edged boulder at the top of a slope, and no way to step out of its path - no way, at least, that did not leave her land and her people vulnerable to almost certain destruction. She stared down at her own feet, put one in front of the other in mute resolution.

The trail climbed steeply, doubling back on itself; behind her Geraint panted out, “I can’t believe you came down _this_ in that storm. Please don’t ever do that again.”

“It was one of several impulsive decisions,” she admitted. “But I can’t say I regret any of them, and I don’t believe you do either.” She heard him chuckle between breaths.

An outcropping of rough stone jutted out of the earth at the top of the cliff, marking the trail; by the time they reached this landmark the sky was pale at the eastern horizon. Angharad pocketed the Pelydryn, its light no longer necessary. “You promised to tell me about that,” Geraint reminded her.   
  
“I will,” she began, turning the corner.

She froze. On the other side of the outcropping, two horses were standing. They had been reined up, suddenly, as she emerged from the shadow of the rock.Elen and Eilwen sat astride them, looking stunned.

“Well,” said Eilwen, after a very awkward silence, “This ought to be good.”

* * *

Geraint leaned against the rocky outcropping, feeling embarrassed and irritated.

It was maddening, having to stand back and do nothing while three women argued about him, but he did not know what else to do. Though he had instinctively stepped in front of Angharad the moment he realized they had witnesses, she had pushed past him and motioned for him to be silent. He bit his tongue, realizing that she was far less at a loss than he, given all the angles of the situation.

He had been able to guess at the identity of at least one of the riders that had met them at the top of the cliffs. Angharad had mentioned the existence of a sister at some point in their conversations, and the resemblance of the taller of the two strangers was near enough to pick her out of a crowd; besides that, she wore her own version of the silver crescent Angharad bore on her breast. The bold, appraising glances she kept casting toward him over Angharad’s shoulder, and the openly lascivious smirk she wore, were somewhat unsettling. It had been immediately clear that any claims he might make of accidentally stumbling across a lost princess and escorting her back to the castle would be recognized for the falsehoods they were. He did find a certain amount of comfort in this minx’s utter lack of dismay over the obvious—indeed, her apparent approval of it—but was still unused to such frankness from women, Angharad’s example notwithstanding.

The second girl was slight and shorter, and, though pleasant-featured, did not share the imposing presence or vivid, unforgettable beauty of the sisters. Unlike her companion, she had seemed genuinely shocked at the sight of him, and her part in the animated but low-volume conversation now taking place was quieter, less certain. She had not looked directly at him since that first astonished stare.

Snatches of the conversation occasionally rose high enough for him to hear: fervent, urgent, accusatory, but never enough to piece together. The atmosphere between the three of them was charged with tension. Angharad gestured emphatically as she talked, her back to him; her companions exchanged glances, one amused, the other dubious.

Finally some sort of arrangement appeared to be reached. Angharad strode back to him, head high, face set in authoritative lines. The goddess had returned.

“I shall be going back with my companions,” she informed him. “You need not come any farther.”

Geraint was taken aback at this abrupt dismissal, a return of austere formality he hardly expected now, and he felt no inclination to acquiesce without protest. He glanced past her, noted the saucy grin worn by the taller of the girls. “You’re not going to introduce me, then?”

Angharad faltered, looking flustered. “I don’t think—,”

“Your sister looks rather like she’d enjoy it,” he added wickedly. “I’m not sure about the other.”

She glared at him as though she’d like to shake him. “These are not really the ideal circumstances for—,”

“Should I not look her in the eye?” he interrupted, in a loud whisper, for the young woman in question had evidently decided to take matters into her own hands and was marching toward them resolutely.

Angharad sputtered something extremely unladylike and turned her back to him, clearing her throat. “Eilwen. I told you to—,”

“Don’t be such a killjoy, Angharad. You drove us mad with worry; the least you could do is introduce the reason.” The girl halted in front of him, staring frankly from little more than arm’s length away without the slightest indication that she found anything untoward in this arrangement. Geraint, still unsure, bowed, rose, and looked politely over her right ear.

Angharad, next to him, radiated embarrassment, whether over him or her sister’s behavior he was not sure. In the rising sunlight her cheeks were scarlet; her voice sounded rather strained. “Geraint of Gellau. My sister, Eilwen, Daughter of Llyr and Priestess of Rhiannon.”

“It is an honor,” Geraint began, then grunted in surprise as the girl giggled, grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him closer, kissing him on one cheek and then the other. She smelled, overpoweringly, of hawthorn bloom and lavender, and it made his head swim. He heard Angharad gasp.

“You,” Eilwen said, in an exultant purr, without letting go of him,“are most welcome. In fact I don’t imagine there’s been a guest on this island made so welcome in ages.”

 _“Eilwen,”_ Angharad hissed in horror, and her sister laughed again, completely unabashed.

“For goodness’ sake, boy, look me in the face,” she ordered. Geraint complied, blinking at a pair of black-fringed emerald irises, startlingly familiar and sparkling with mischief. Eilwen’s grin widened.“There, no wonder. _Rhiannon_ , look at those eyes. Aren’t you delicious. It’s such a shame you’re not an enchanter. Are you _quite_ sure you haven’t any powers?”

“I fear not, milady,” Geraint stammered, rather overwhelmed, “except my own wits and…” he looked sidelong at Angharad, daring a weak grin. “Erm…charm.”

Angharad looked murderous. Eilwen made a gurgling sound of delight, and gave his shoulders a playful little push, releasing him as she stepped back. “Oh, dear, yes, so I see. And you’re _sure_ you don’t want to stay in guest lodgings closer to Caer Colur? It would make it so much easier for you both.” 

“Easier for him to get caught and imprisoned,” Angharad growled, through her teeth.

“I suppose that’s true,” Eilwen sighed. “I only thought…well, never mind. Pity, but better to be cautious.” She winked at Geraint. “Only do discourage her from running out in the middle of the night again, won’t you? It gave us quite a turn.”

“Speaking of which,” Angharad broke in, “we need to get back, before things get worse.” Her tone and expression indicated that several things were about to get worse for her sister, but Eilwen only smirked at her over her shoulder as she turned away.

“Well-met, Geraint of Gellau. I hope to see more of you. Though sadly, perhaps not as much as my sister has. Farewell.”

 _“Llyr,”_ Angharad muttered as she turned back to him, face flaming.

Geraint grinned. “I like her.”

“Of course you do,” she retorted, “like all men. It’s quite deliberate. Growing up in the grove made her that way; they’re _all_ like that, the priestesses _and_ the devotees, and it’s why they almost never leave it until they marry; it’s mayhem in their wake when they go among the people.”

“You’ll have to tell me more about that sometime.” He glanced ahead, where the other girl was waiting. “Is she one as well?”

“No, that’s Elen. My lady-in-waiting, and we owe her. When I didn’t come to my rooms she was up all night worrying, and went to Eilwen as soon as the storm cleared, before anyone else could discover it. We’re lucky she did, instead of going to Mother.”

Elen was holding both bridles and staring resentfully at the horizon while Eilwen swung, with the same easy athleticism he had observed in Angharad, onto one of the horses,. “I would thank her,” he whispered, “but she looks rather unhappy about it.”

Angharad sighed. “She’s upset with me for not telling her about you. I didn’t want her to have to lie for me.” She turned troubled eyes to him, turquoise in the morning light. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I don’t…” She took a breath. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. Repair your boat, Geraint. Please. I want to know that you’ll be safe, no matter what befalls us.”

He would never leave this island unless he knew _she_ were safe, on it or off it, but he did not say so; could not refuse her anything. He nodded and hesitated, desiring to embrace her once more but conscious of Eilwen’s impertinent gaze boring into them.

Angharad shot her sister a look of amused annoyance. She grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him around the back of the outcropping out of view of any witnesses, and made him a memorable farewell.

He barely heard Eilwen’s distant whoop of triumphant laughter over the thunder of the surf and his own heartbeat in his ears.


	14. Chapter 14

_I didn’t know_

_that bridges burnt_

_are irrevocable_

_that forgiveness_

_doesn’t span the chasm_

_like forgotten._

~Vince Gullaci

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

Angharad swung into the saddle and clucked to the horse, one strange to her. Elen and Eilwen shared the other mount.

“All right, out with it,” Eilwen commanded, the moment they were out of Geraint’s earshot.

It was nothing she had not expected, but Angharad frowned in annoyance. “The only thing you need to know just now is how much danger we all are in.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to tell anyone.”

“I don’t care. Mother’s lost her wits and I won’t be silent for her anymore.” She recounted it all, from the beginning; the vision, the midnight rituals against the alien fire, and her confrontation with Regat. Eilwen and Elen both stared, white-lipped and open-mouthed.

 _“Achren?”_ Elen spat the name like a bite of spoiled food. “What kind of plan is that?”

“Desperate,” Eilwen whispered. Her usual impudent cheerfulness had disappeared. “ _Rhiannon._ When you said it was bad…” She shivered, cupped her hand to her breast and squinted at her sister. “There _is_ a certain logic to it. Achren is the one most likely to know how to fight this, if it’s truly Arawn. But she won’t do it for love or loyalty to _us_. What does Mother think to offer her in exchange?”

“I don’t know,” said Angharad. “She said she had certain terms, but…I suspect she thinks Achren will help us just for the sake of revenge.”

“Hmph,” said Eilwen. “She might, from what I hear. But I wouldn’t trust her to stop there. Mother’s no fool, Angharad — she has to have some idea of how to keep her under control.”

“If she does, she didn’t tell me.”

“Well, you ran out in a fit, didn’t you? Not that I blame you for that.” Eilwen chewed at her lip, looking grim. “I might have done the same. Especially with _that_ to run to,” she added, twitching her head back in the direction of the cove.

Angharad ignored the insinuation and continued, “She was furious. I thought she’d follow me.”

Elen shook her head. “She didn’t come looking for you, milady, not in your chambers.”

“Then I suppose no one knows I was gone but the two of you.” Angharad heaved a heavy sigh of relief. “I’m sorry. Forgive me, Elen, I didn’t mean to worry you; I just…wasn’t thinking. I barely knew where I was going and I never intended to stay out the whole night.But the storm…and he was…I couldn’t…” She clutched at her throat, suddenly struck with the enormity of what she had done. “I don’t know how it all happened.”

Eilwen snorted and started to speak, caught her sister’s baleful glare, and shut her mouth, though it twitched at the corners. They rode in silence for several minutes, grave, lost in thought. Angharad desperately tried to calm her mind, tried to come up with some sort of plan. There was too much: too much happening, too much to feel, too much to protect, too much at stake, and she could not _think._

The grey towers of Caer Colur swam through the haze ahead. “The grooms will notice if we come back with one more than we left with,” Elen pointed out.

Angharad reined up, staring at the castle with a foreboding sense of inevitability.“I’ll go back in the way I came out.”

“I’d forgotten about that old passageway,” Eilwen remarked lightly. “Convenient bit of architecture, isn’t it? I wonder why it was ever put in.” She slid from her saddle as Angharad thumped to the ground herself, trading the reins over. “I’ve got to get back to the grove. Keep me informed, though. This is…” She shook her head. “Well. Now I know what we’re all working ourselves to death over at least.”

Angharad, thinking with dread of what awaited her, could only nod. Her sister paused, and took her by the shoulders, looking her in the face with unusual, serious earnestness, her eyes full. “Angharad, love…listen to me. I may not know the precedents for court decisions, or the art of negotiations, or how to…to craft a new decree. That’s been your place, and thankfully, you’ve stayed alive and not passed it on to me.” She cupped Angharad’s face in her hands, cool and soothing, and pressed her forehead to hers. “But I _do_ know what’s happening with him. You’ve done nothing wrong. Love’s _not_ a distraction; it’s real, and just as powerful as visions and protection spells and what-all. Maybe more so. Take your fill of it while you can.” She kissed her swiftly on the brow. “You have the rest of your life to sacrifice yourself for duty.”

Angharad gasped out an hysterical sob, and Eilwen embraced her silently, held her until she regained herself. It _shouldn’t_ take so much effort; she was trained for control, for calm, for wise decisions made from reason and unemotional, impassive discernment—

“Besides,” Eilwen muttered, in her ear, “I still want to hear all about—,”

“Oh, good _Llyr_.” Angharad pushed her away, the sob in her chest turning to a gasp of involuntary, rather outraged laughter. “Do you never stop thinking about that?”

“No.” Eilwen scrambled up to the horse’s back with a grin. “When you’re forced to live vicariously, you’re rather hand-to-mouth, darling. Now off you go, and chin up - you’re not alone in this any longer.”

She and Elen chirruped to their horses and trotted away, Elen with one reproachful backward glance that silently conferred _we’ll speak later._ Angharad sighed, and dutifully turned her feet toward the castle, marching forward while her mind revolved.

She could not simply wait and do nothing, but what _could_ she do? It was too late to prevent any of Regat’s plans, when messages had already been sent, summons made — no wonder the queen had been so willing to excuse her from council; her impending wedding had likely been common knowledge to all their advisors before it had been revealed to her, the one it most concerned.

She wondered about the as-yet faceless, nameless men who would soon be receiving word of her eligibility for marriage, and shivered, fighting down a wave of nausea. Had her own father been found in the same manner? Angharad knew little of him; only that Regat had married in her mid-20s, rather later than was typical, and that he had died in a fever shortly after the birth of Eilwen. His particular power had been a certain type of clairvoyance - an empath, Arianrhod had called him once, saying that his ability to sense the true emotions of the people around him had made him extraordinarily useful in areas of both diplomacy and justice.

Regat rarely spoke of him, and then only briefly. By the time Angharad had been old enough to notice that other girls of her acquaintance had fathers present in their lives, the absence of her own was so matter-of-fact that she had only noted the difference as a curiosity. Her questions had been met with vague answers that discouraged further inquiry, and she had dropped the matter, accepting the standard attitude that anyone with the privilege of calling Llyr their father needed no other.

Only now did the implications disturb her—though it shouldn’t have taken _this_ long, she thought distastefully. _Why do we even bother with marriage at all? We treat men like stones, chosen for how well they serve to shore up a breach in a wall._ One could just as easily make an _ally_ rather than a husband of an enchanter for that purpose, gaining his help without committing oneself with vows - surely there could be mutually agreeable terms that did not extend to sharing, irrevocably, one’s household, wealth, bed and body.

Of course it also was done in order to ensure the descendants of Llyr would have the best chance of increasing magical abilities - daughters had, on occasion, added extra powers to their already formidable arsenal, thanks to their fathers’ contributions. That was almost worse, Angharad thought, with a grimace. Not a stone, no…a man was a stallion, hired out to service, obsolete as soon as a few healthy foals were produced — look for an established bloodline and a fine composition, if you please; we’d like to breed champions. It was no worse, perhaps, than the brood mare status many women seemed to hold on the mainland - but for a family that decried that very circumstance in principle, the irony was spectacular.

Regat’s announcement, all the same, should not have been the shock it was. Angharad had always known it would be her duty to wed an enchanter; it was as much a fixture of her future life as the fact that she would wear the crown of Llyr and sit upon its throne. She had, rather distantly, assumed that someone reasonably agreeable would eventually come along, and accepted the idea with pragmatism, as she had so much else.

Until Geraint.

_Geraint._

She had reached the hidden place in the border wall that housed the entrance of the secret passage; Angharad slipped into the darkness and pressed her back against the cold stone wall, face in her hands, muffling a sob. How was it that the one thing that made her happier than she had ever been should also utterly destroy whatever modicum of contentment she had enjoyed before he came?

_How do I bear it when he leaves?_

She thought, irrationally, of tragic romances wherein lovers killed themselves over the impossibility of being together. She had always found such stories ridiculous, yet now they held a sort of dark, empathetic reason. Of course it was all very well, if one were free to die without obligation; she could not even do _that_ ; her life was not her own. If it were, she would be free to leave and then they wouldn’t _have_ to die…and…and what was she even thinking? Nobody was dying over anything.

_Breathe. Control yourself. Think of happier things._

Oh, _Llyr,_ that didn’t work either; given free rein her thoughts only returned to the vivid, feverish memory of the last ten hours, the immediacy still etched on her mind, a story written in letters of fire upon her body and soul. It should be a delight to revisit, to gather these intimate things to herself and treasure them in all their newness and wonder - yet this luxury was denied her as well. She could not think of her time with Geraint without thinking of that which had driven her to him at its outset.

 _Achren._ The very name made her shudder; and there was no turning the tide back; not if Regat had already contacted her.

The hidden gate clanged shut behind her, locked into the stone.

It really had been foolish of her to run out of the queen’s chamber without getting more information. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to feign acceptance and regain Regat’s confidence. If nothing else she must know precisely what was to be offered to Achren, the conditions of any agreement reached. If her mother had lost all reason then there must be _someone_ present who still had some, and she doubted the Chief Steward or any of the other advisors had been made privy to this particular plot. She should confer with them, but then, what could they do? What could any of them do without openly defying the queen and throwing the whole household into chaos? It would sow mistrust in Regat’s judgement - not that this would be unfounded, but what then? They could not afford strife or discord or seeds of rebellion right now, when the very safety of the island depended on the combined power of the royal family.

Arianrhod should be told. Eilwen knew, and the three of them together might be able to effect a protective spell powerful enough to keep Achren under control, might be able to scry out the far-reaching effects of her influence, perhaps even prevent her from answering Regat’s summons. New moon was at hand; it was a potent time, always revelatory; a scry under it might clarify something of what they had seen in the last vision, along with providing a clearer path with better options ahead.

She took as many back ways as she could to her own chambers, and encountered no one but a footman and a housemaid, who, given the circumstances she caught them under, were too concerned about her suspicions to form their own. She sent them scattering, not without a twinge of sympathy, and continued on, reaching her own room with an ambivalent sigh.

Elen was waiting for her, and rose slowly, with none of her usual bounce. She looked pale and rather haggard, and Angharad remembered, in a wave of guilt, that her faithful friend had not slept all night. “You should go back to bed,” she told her. “I can manage, or call up Dwyn or Leri for the day.”

 _“Why didn’t you tell me?”_ Elen slumped, her slight frame seeming to fold in on itself until she looked as small and forlorn as a child. Angharad, dismayed, flew across the room and threw her arms around her just as she burst into tears.

“Oh, Elen, _don’t!_ ” The girl clung to her, cried stormily onto her shoulder while she murmured broken apologies. Llyr, _how_ had it come to this? One man. A vague memory of one of her grandmother’s favorite adages popped into her mind— _they’re more trouble than they’re worth half the time._ She almost felt inclined to agree.

She sat on her bed, pulled Elen down next to her. “I never wanted to hurt you, love. There were times I wanted to tell you more than anything, but I didn’t want you to have to lie for me, or to worry…not that I managed to prevent that, either way,” she sighed.

“I’d have worried less if I’d just _known_ more,” Elen sniffed. “It’s all that clear now; I don’t know how I didn’t guess. Mooning around like you’ve been. My sister was the same when she met Rhys.”

“How _are_ Delyth and Rhys, by the way? How old is the baby now?”

“Nearly a year, but don’t change the subject. Speaking of _that,_ ” Elen added, looking very grave, “it’s a dangerous game you’re playing.” She cast a significant glare at her mistress’s midsection. “How do you know you’re not—,”

“It’s not been going on long enough for that,” Angharad interrupted, face warming. “Up until last night we…might have been no more than friends. And the timing’s all off; new moon tonight and I’ll be bleeding by tomorrow — you know that.”

Elen humphed. “Be careful, is all. Rhiannon’s played her tricks on plenty before you, moon or no moon.” Her hand flicked in the crescent sign and dropped quickly, as though she resented it. “And I don’t expect last night’ll be the end of it, either. Too late to shut the gate once the sheep are out.”

“What a lovely comparison.” Angharad stood up, holding cold hands to her flaming cheeks.

“It’s the truth,” Elen retorted. “Llyr, your gown’s a wreck. Walking through all that mud. Let’s get you dressed in something decent before you have to be seen.” She rose, with a return of something of her typical briskness, circled to Angharad’s back and began tugging at laces, _tsk_ ing like a crone. “It’s all knots back here.”

“Well, I dressed in the dark, with no Elen to help.”

“Why didn’t you ask _him?_ ” —acidly.

“He was asleep. Are you _actually_ _jealous?_ ” She turned to Elen in astonishment. The girl scowled, but beneath it there was genuine sadness, confusion.

“No, but…it’s just…you’re that much further away now,” she said. “It’s always been just us, like sisters almost, but for our positions, and now…oh, I know it’s not my place, milady,” Elen blurted out, “but it’s hard, the thought of you not needing me anymore.” Her eyes brimmed over again.

Angharad took her face in her hands and kissed her on the brow. “Elen. I always need you. Now more than ever.” She enfolded the girl again, embraced her as she would her own sister. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything. No doubt you could have saved me from quite a bit of foolishness and trouble. I’ll tell you all from now on.”

Elen sniffled for a moment, then, pulling herself together, squeezed her hard and let go. “I _am_ glad to see you happy, you know. I’m sure he’s as lovely as you think he is. But I hate for you to be hurt, and I don’t see how you won’t be in the end.” She shook her head. “How are you going to carry on once you’re obliged to marry someone else?”

Angharad swallowed the lump in her throat. “I don’t know. I can’t think about that yet. It’s coming soon enough, whether I do or not. I have too much trouble on my hands already.”

Elen made a noise of reluctant agreement and turned her back around, pushed her onto a stool. “Gods have mercy _,_ your _hair._ What did he — oh, never mind, save it for that randy sister of yours. Just have some pity on me and take a comb next time, or keep it braided.” She fell to muttering under her breath. Angharad submitted, embarrassed and silent, to being groomed and dressed, and wondered distractedly why Regat had not chased her down the night before, or already sent for her this morning. Surely her defiance would not be overlooked without consequence.

“Down to breakfast as usual, then?” Elen suggested, when she was presentable. “You’d do best to pretend things are no different.”

At her window, the early sunlight streamed into the room, a pale gold shaft dancing with glittering motes. Angharad crossed to it, looked out upon the morning. Lacy clouds in the eastern sky trailed the risen sun in a train of pink and gold velvet. The air was mild and sweet, the world young and new, as though it had never heard of any such thing as a raging storm. “Everything’s different,” she sighed. She stood in the shaft of light, soaking it in, steadying herself. Light was hopeful, was buoyant, made her believe, just for the moment, that there was a way forward. There had to be.

Too many bridges had been crossed and burned, and there was no way back.


	15. Chapter 15

_Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone._

_Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water._

_If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it._

_Water does._

~ Margaret Atwood

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

“Leave us,” said Regat, waving an arm at the servants. “I would speak with my daughter and my sister in private.”

Angharad stared at her barely-touched breakfast, feeling numb. It had been a strange and tense meal; the usual morning chatter of the ladies seemed to buzz about her like flies, and the queen had said nothing directly to her since her first austere, distant greeting upon entering the room. Now, it seemed, this was to change. Elen cast her a look of mute sympathy as she rose with the rest of the ladies, who trickled slowly from the room, failing to hide the curiosity in their backwards glances, before the door shut.

Silence. Breathe. Wait. Her stomach churned; she swallowed, and clasped her shaking hands in her lap, under the table. Across it, Arianrhod sat, solemn and pale.

The queen took a breath and let it out slowly. “I have had word.” She looked meaningfully at Angharad. “Achren answered my message, late last night.”

The room tilted, and Angharad shut her eyes. Breathe…even when the world stops, breathe. She opened them again, and glanced at her aunt; Arianrhod looked grave, but not surprised.So she had known. Her blue-grey eyes were dull with regret; she caught Angharad’s eye and shook her head slightly, answering her niece’s unspoken question with, “It was not my decision to make.”

Angharad turned to her mother. “And how did she respond?”

“As I expected,” Regat said. “She will come. In order to confirm our suspicions she must see the work for herself.” She looked grim, and did not meet either of their eyes. “I know your concerns, both of you. Do not think I delude myself that she comes as ally or friend. If I thought we had any other, more effective way of fighting this attack, I would never permit her entry.”

“And how will you stop her if she oversteps her boundaries?” Arianrhod asked doubtfully. “Or _when_ she does, as the case may be. What assurance do you have that she will aid us rather than our enemy?”

“If she wishes to live,” Regat said, “she will abide by my terms. She bound herself to them by responding.”

“And they are?”

“While she is on the island, any magic she attempts will be in the presence and with the permission of a Daughter of Llyr, or…” Regat made a dismissive motion with one graceful hand, “I will arrange that the sea will have her.”

“She might just decide she likes it here a bit too much,” Angharad pointed out, and her mother smiled grimly.

“She is not one of us. Our powers are mostly beyond her abilities, useless to her. No, she will not attempt a takeover.”

“What _have_ you offered her?” Angharad asked.

Regat shrugged. “A chance for redemption. Or revenge. However she chooses to see it.” Her dark eyes rested on her daughter. “Her motivations concern me less than her actions. But know this: she will come in disguise, and unheralded. Her presence here is to be known only by us. I am well aware of how our allies would look at our giving her sanctuary, and of how easily rumor could spread. There is to be no mention of her name, and she will remain secluded in the castle, under the supervision a few trusted servants, to keep her out of mischief.”

“Like keeping a serpent as a houseguest,” Angharad muttered. Regat’s mouth twitched.

“It was much to accept, all that I told you last night,” the queen acknowledged. “I ought to have given you more warning, Angharad, and I regret not doing so. Your reaction was…understandable, under the circumstances, and I give you my pardon.”

Angharad wrested her eyes away from her mother’s gaze, stared at her own clutched hands, and quelled an urge to break into hysterical, wild laughter. Pardon, oh yes - a relief, indeed! She pressed her lips together and held her breath, feeling dizzy. Arianrhod squinted at her curiously. “Are you all right, love?”

“We had a rather…unpleasant exchange, last night,” Regat explained, before Angharad could answer. “She approves neither of seeking aid from Achren, nor the necessity of her own marriage — and while I sympathize with her feelings, the time has come for feeling to bow to duty.”

Arianrhod sighed, her expression full of genuine sadness. “Oh, dear. _Must_ it come to that, Regat? There are no enchanters worth any salt young enough to appeal to our Angharad, unless they’re hiding in a dark corner somewhere.”

“It is unfortunate,” Regat admitted. “But we need any and all power we can amass just now.”

The priestess shook her head. “There is more than one source of power,” she sighed. “But you would never avail yourself of any other. That archaic law—”

 _“Is the law,”_ Regat cut her off with finality, her face tight. “And she is bound by it, as I was; as you never were.”

 _“Enough.”_ Angharad blurted the word as though it tore her. “I won’t be talked about as though I’m not here.” She sprang up so abruptly that her chair toppled backwards, and faced her mother. “You know very well I will do whatever you tell me I must. It is what I have always done.” Heat rose in her throat, choking her; tears stung, unshed, behind her eyes. “But I won’t pretend to be happy about it, or that fulfilling my…duty…or destiny…or whatever it may be…is a satisfaction that somehow makes up for all I must relinquish.” The tears spilled out anyway, in spite of her efforts; her voice shook, even as it rose louder. “It won’t. And when I’m queen,” she gasped, and pounded her fist upon the table; the platters rattled. “When I am queen, this law will die with you, and all the rest of our line who had not the courage to change it. I swear it.”

 _“Angharad,”_ Arianrhod gasped, horrified.

“ _Stop this,_ ” Regat ordered, white-faced, and Angharad knew she had dared too far, but it was too late, and another bridge was burning, _gods, how many of them would she burn?_

Her hand fell, by chance, upon her knife, unused at the meal; before any cautious, conscious thought could interfere the princess flipped it blade-up and raked her palm along it, held up her clenched fist, dripping red upon the table linen. “I swear it,” she repeated, voice suddenly steady, buoyed up by a surge of power that filled her lungs and throat, pulsed through her veins, twined around her fingers in invisible strands. “My daughters will be free to wed whomever they please. They will choose by their own hearts: sorcerer or shoemaker, prince or pauper. And if they find none worthy of their hearts they will be free to belong to themselves alone. If our line perishes for it, then it perishes.”

Regat and Arianrhod both stared at her as though at some mad, dangerous stranger who had invaded a private sanctuary. Angharad, trembling, slammed her hand to the table and pushed herself away from it, staining the tablecloth with a streaky crimson handprint, webbed with a strange, gauzy light that died almost instantly. She thought at first to run from the room, but checked the impulse, and slowly regained her breath while she held Regat’s gaze, blazing, resolute.

“May I go?” she demanded, after a long silence.

“Are you quite finished?” Regat asked coldly.

“For now.”

Arianrhod looked from one to the other of them in alarm. “Blessed Rhiannon,” she breathed. “Regat — no, don’t speak, for once, just let her be. Go, Angharad, and lie down. You’re overwrought, and no wonder: new moon tonight; I’ll send you up some ginger tea.” She rose, came around to her niece’s side and took her by the shoulders; Angharad permitted herself to be guided past her mother, still sitting outraged at the head of the table, to the door.

“That was reckless,” Arianrhod whispered, releasing her into the hallway. “I don’t know what you just did in there, but you did _some_ thing. I don’t blame you, love, but if you’ll take my advice, stay out of her way the rest of the day. I’ll make sure you aren’t needed for anything.”

“But the rituals tonight—,” Angharad began, shakily.

Her aunt shook her head. “ _Llyr_ , absolutely not, not in the state you’re both in. It can wait until tomorrow night, for all the good it’s doing anyway. I’ll manage her on _that_.” She hesitated a moment, and glanced back at the door, lowering her voice. “Can you come to me tomorrow morning? Early, before sunrise. I’ve been meaning to speak with you for some time.”

Angharad nodded warily; her aunt looked relieved and added, “Bring Eilwen with you, and the spellbook. It’s time she knew, whatever your mother says.”

“She knows,” Angharad said dully. “I told her everything, early this morning.”

Arianrhod looked surprised for a moment; then her mouth pressed into a grim line. “Good,” she murmured, “then I don’t have to.” She laid cool hands on Angharad’s face, kissed her on the forehead. Her face changed for the briefest instant; she gave her niece such a piercing glance that Angharad quailed, feeling as though her very soul was laid bare, but before she could say a word the expression was gone, and Arianrhod only murmured “I’ll see you then. Go - rest.”

She retreated back into the chamber, leaving the princess alone in the corridor. Angharad stood still, staring at the closed door. She looked down at her palm, wincing at the sting as her blood welled up from the red line across it. She did not know what she’d just done, either; she had not intended for any magic to be part of her oath, but somehow it had intruded in. New moon magic worked that way, all blood and impulse, unpredictably entangling with the unbalanced emotional state it induced, always binding. Well, what of it, then? She had meant every word, and if an extra bit of power wanted to back up her declarations, so be it.

Abruptly she turned on her heel and stalked down the dark hallway, heading not to her own chambers but to another wing of the castle. Up a spiral stair, into the tower where the implements of the powers of Llyr were kept behind a locked door that opened to her of its own accord; she entered the chamber and took up the leather-bound spell book in her wounded hand, barely taking notice of blood smearing across the cover. She tucked it under her arm and wondered where to go. Not to her own chambers; Elen would want to know everything that had just transpired, and put her to bed and fuss over her when she herself ought to be resting.

 _I need someplace quiet, where I can think._ An image of the cove snapped automatically to mind, and she groaned to herself and sank onto a wooden chest at the flood of warm, heady sensation that accompanied it. No, there would be no _thinking_ involved if she went there, as much as she might desire to go; Geraint was a distracting enough presence in her thoughts, let alone in person.

She thought of the grove; there were quiet corners there, nooks scattered throughout where supplicants might meditate…but no. The general atmosphere of the place would not be conducive to mulling over anything other than her recent experiences; she might as well go back to Geraint for all the good it would do her. The idea of being in a green, tree-filled space was appealing, however; she made up her mind all at once, and hurried from the chamber and down the stairs.

Stopping along the way for a cloak and sturdier shoes was necessary; fortunately Elen turned out to be asleep in her adjoining chamber, and Angharad quickly gathered what she needed, bound her wounded hand in a linen strip from Elen’s sewing scrap basket, and slipped the spellbook into a satchel before leaving the room in silence.

Across the courtyard; she glanced up at the noise from the stables. Around the perimeter of the horse pen a handful of figures were gathered, watching the training of a pair of new colts. The glossy animals trotted in a circle, flirting their tails, arching their proud necks; at the center a young, sturdily-built girl held their tethers, shouting instructions in a clear, joyful voice. Angharad paused, and smiled despite her agitation; good, Tesni was back at work doing what she loved; the matronly housemaid she had sent to Mabon’s household must have things well in hand. Tempted to watch, she forced herself to move on; if anyone noticed her they’d all stop to acknowledge her; she did not want to ride and there was no need to interrupt the scene.

She left the gates, nodding shortly at the guards’ salute, and strode north, taking a rugged trail that led to the hills, within which, in a hollow sheltered from the sea winds, was hidden one of the few heavily forested areas of the island. She reached it within the hour; the straight, tall trunks of pines and firs rose up before her like the columns in a sacred hall.She slipped between them; a silent shadow, footfalls soft in the hush beneath the trees.

A memory rose to her mind; the ancient, endless forests of Prydain, rich and verdant and teeming with life and light. She had loved them: the twisted and gnarled shapes of the old oaks, the delicate, pale beauty of birch and poplar, the glimmering play of light and shadow under the canopies, the moss that grew an ankle-deep carpet upon the forest floor. Gwydion had walked with her there; she, at sixteen, young and in awe of a world she had never known, had hung on his words to an extent that, thinking of it now, made her cringe a little.

 _We have a saying._ His low, resonant voice slid into her thoughts; she saw the flash of his wolf-smile, the gleam of his green-flecked eyes. _“I must return to my trees.” It means calming and balancing the mind, restoring the spirit, as happens in the woods. We find peace among the trees; they settle us, make us whole._

Mainland poetry, she thought wryly - but there was something in it, after all, that sheunderstood; it was a similar sense of restoration, perhaps, that she felt from the sea. But different, at that — forests did not pull you to any great unknown; they stood firm, anchored to the earth, their permanence calm and grounding, and…and one didn’t want to be calm _all_ the time. At least, she didn’t. Perhaps that was why she could not love Gwydion; he was too much like the trees and the earth, sturdy and steadfast, and she was salt and sea, always craving something wild, something _more,_ out of reach beyond the horizon.

Geraint’s face danced in her mind as if in deliberate contrast and she permitted herself a few self-indulgent thoughts of him as she settled onto the forest floor with her back propped against a tree. _He_ was restlessness itself, the very embodiment of all her inadmissible and undefined yearnings; no wonder she could not stop going to him, could not help loving him. For a moment she regretted not returning to the cove; she had the whole day, thanks to her outburst; she could’ve gone back to him…back to…oh, dear.

No. No, she had work to do. Angry at her own weakness, she pushed away the sweltering memories of the past night and pulled the spellbook from her satchel, lighting the Pelydryn and holding it up to shine on the pages.

She thumbed through them slowly, scanning the scripts and symbols, unsure of what, exactly, she was looking for. Of the entire book, she had only ever seen or performed a portion of the work outlined in its pages; there were so many spells that were passed over, dismissed as being useful in the past but no longer necessary, or set aside for later stages of her life. Surely, somewhere, there was that which might serve in their need, as an offensive against the enemy, or at least protection from what might be ahead.

Overhead, wind threaded itself through the canopy, whispering; the pillar-trunks creaked and sighed. Birds twittered cheerfully from hidden perches. Angharad pushed her fists against the ground, sensing the buzz and hum of life within and around it, points of light that crossed and intersected and flashed in her mind’s eye, and she leaned her head back, shut her eyes to soak it in. Oh, there was _so much_ here - even here, in this space where people rarely walked; and it was only a tiny piece of the island - worth saving, even if none lived upon it. Why would anyone seek to destroy it?

The anger and passion that had driven her from the castle were draining away under the calming influence of the woods; she knew herself suddenly, thoroughly exhausted. The symbols and scripts wavered before her eyes and she blinked, shook her head, glared at the book; this was no time for sleep, no matter the several valid reasons she needed it; there was too much to do. But it was a losing battle; she slumped against the tree, lower into the moss, and the spellbook sank, open, over her breast; the light of the Pelydryn, warm against her closed eyelids, burned out as she drifted into darkness.

_Darkness._

_And light._

_It condensed itself into a sphere, full and ripe and glowing silver-white. It hung upon nothing, the darkness was soft around it and she was within the light, surrounded and engulfed by it in pearly, peaceful radiance. But she felt sorrow; an overwhelming sense of longing, grief and anger, and a single tear wrung itself from her eye and fell, glittering like a star._

_The tear tumbled into emptiness, a drop of crystalline fire; it split into three brilliant points, each a miniature version of the first. They clung to each other, sending out desperate, clutching tendrils of flame that stretched and tore as they moved apart. She cried out at the pain of their separation, a rending of element that broke all law both natural and supernatural, a rip in the fabric of eternity…_

_The stars fixed themselves and the tendrils of light between them searched, spiraling out and found one another; their lines joined and merged in winding, sinuous paths until they formed a three-pointed shape; a symbol of light that rested upon…water._

_The sea. It roared like thunder, writhing, rising up in walls around the spirals of light, pushed back, and back. The weight of the water tore through her very being, an outrage, an offense, a split of her own nature to be so bound and thwarted in its natural movement, but she could not escape the agony of it, for she herself held it back._

_At the center of the spiraled arms, land appeared, surrounded by the walls of water, there, light and darkness met and joined; they danced together, locked in an embrace; opposing powers in union. Virile, luxuriant joy flowed from the center of the dance, in concentric circles like the rings upon the water after a stone is dropped into it, and beneath the spreading rings the earth grew green and verdant._

_And suddenly the spirals broke and the sea roared and fell back; the green land shone like a jewel in the midst of the dark water. The three stars dimmed and winked as they moved; one disappeared into the green scrap of earth, one was engulfed into white brightness, and one…one rested upon her own breast, or perhaps it was inside it, and she thought, panicked, that she had swallowed it…_

Angharad woke up with a gasp, clutching at her throat, inadvertently shoving the open spellbook to the ground.The silver crescent pendant pressed smoothly against her hand. She sat up slowly, breathing hard, tracing the familiar, soothing shape of it, but the gem was inexplicably hot against the cold metal; it scalded her, and she gasped and jerked her hand away, catching her fingertip upon its sharp faceted edge.

She watched, surprised, as a single bead of crimson welled up and fell, spotting the blank open page of the book like a careless drop of ink.


	16. Chapter 16

_Take the slivered moon_

_from the sky and though_

_the edges may be sharp,_

_you won’t be able to wipe_

_the stardust from your_

_fingertips._

_I promise it will be_

_worth it,_

_to hold the moon._

_~Ariana_

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

The girl who opened the door of Arianrhod’s house was young, a handmaiden barely into her teens, by the look of her.She had obviously just crawled from bed: dark hair disheveled, her wrinkled nightshift hastily covered with a robe, her eyes bleary. It took her a moment, blinking in the light of the candle she carried, to register the identity of those who had knocked. “Miladies!” She bobbed a wobbly curtsy. “How may I serve?”

“Arianrhod is expecting us,” Angharad explained shortly. Next to her, Eilwen huffed, and tapped an impatient foot.

The girl glanced from one to the other of them in bewilderment. “I…I believe she is still asleep, miladies.”

“Then _wake her up_ ,” Eilwen ordered, pushing past her into the anteroom. “By the tides, girl. We wouldn’t be here at this hour if it weren’t important, and it was her idea, anyway. Be off with you.” She shooed the youngster toward a hallway and flopped onto a couch as Angharad followed her inside, pulling out the Pelydryn and setting it alight.

“You could be a little less cross,” Angharad told her, setting the sphere in a candle alcove and sitting on the other end of the couch.

“I could not,” Eilwen declared sulkily. “I’m bleeding like a stuck pig; everything hurts from my middle to my knees; and you drag me out before dawn, which comes early enough these days without anyone’s help.” She raised a bare foot and poked her sister in the belly with her toe. “Why must you gallivant around at new moon as if it didn’t bother you at all? You’ve always done that; it drives me mad.”

Angharad, in no mood for being sympathetic, shoved her sister’s prodding foot away with annoyance. “Perhaps it’s that I’ve always been expected to carry on with life meanwhile, instead of being allowed to spend four days moaning like a moor-wind over something that can’t be helped.” She pulled the spellbook from beneath her arm and opened it upon her lap.

Eilwen pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, scowling. “ _Six_ days. It’s only four, for you? You see, it just doesn’t affect you as much, in body or mind. You’re not stuck in the grove with nothing to think about but the state of everyone’s wombs all the time.”

“Indeed, that sounds tedious,” Angharad remarked coolly, flipping pages.

Eilwen leaned over to watch. “What are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure. Anything that might aid us.”

“You really think you’ll find something Mother hasn’t already thought of? She knows that book back to front.”

“If you can’t be helpful you can be silent,” Angharad growled, and Eilwen sat back with a gusty sigh.

“Grump. You should go back to the cove.” Her pretty mouth curved into a smirk. “He’d put you in a better humor.”

Angharad shot her sister an exasperated glance. “And what shall we do to improve yours?”

Eilwen huffed. “Rub it in, why don’t you?”

“Oh, here you are, my loves.” Arianrhod, still in her nightclothes and with hair streaming, appeared in the dark doorway. The little handmaiden pattered anxiously behind. “It’s all right, Trina; go and make us some tea, there’s a good girl. Ginger or chamomile, Angharad? Raspberry leaf for Eilwen, poor darling.”

Eilwen let out a melodramatic moan, and Angharad threw a cushion at her head for it, which she tossed to the ground. “What’s this all about? I already know about Arawn’s siege, and mother’s mad plan about Achren, so you needn’t explain that part. Why hasn’t she asked for my help? I’ve seen you come back from these midnight magic sessions; you look like death; you shouldn’t be taking it on all on your own.”

“Mother appears to think you’re not quite trustworthy with sensitive information,” Angharad informed her. “I can’t imagine why.”

“I call that unjust,” Eilwen said, mockingly defensive. “It’s my business to keep secrets - and I know some good ones, too.” She quirked a mischievous, suggestive eyebrow at Angharad, who ignored her.

“Enough, Eilwen.” Arianrhod’s affection for her niece was real, and her patience long, but Angharad heard it stretch thin in her voice as her aunt settled on the couch with a sigh. “It is your mother’s plans we must discuss. As you both no doubt know, I do not approve of this dealing with the…the… _diffrwyth._ ” Her face twisted in disgust, and both her nieces flinched at the profane word, denoting, in their nomenclature, a woman barren – not from illness or choice, but accursed, a divine punishment for unspeakable acts. “I fear the consequences of bringing her here, fear both what she may attempt and what wrath we may call upon ourselves by association. But Regat would not be gainsaid, and the thing is done.”

"Why has she gone straight to this?” Angharad asked. “I still don’t understand it. We surely had other options. Math, Dallben…even the Fair Folk might have aided us."

“Arawn isn’t exactly hiding, is he?” Eilwen remarked.“The Sons of Don, and even Dallben for that matter, have had _plenty_ of time to do something about him, and haven’t, except bloody his nose when he sticks it too far out of Annuvin. Therefore I suspect they don’t because they _can’t_ , at least not yet, and that’s why Mother isn’t bothering with them.”

Arianrhod shrugged. “She has said as much, and resents that their failure to act has now brought trouble upon us - I admit, much as I esteem the House of Don, it troubles me as well. Though they are surely unaware of his designs against us, if that is what our troubles are. And now, of course, if Achren is to be involved, we must not draw their attention. It has put us in a grave position.” She glanced curiously at Angharad. “It is interesting that you mention the Fair Folk. What do you know of them?”

“Not much. Stories. But they honor our house, don’t they?”

“They do.” Arianrhod looked dubious. “They keep to themselves, and rarely meddle in mortal affairs. But the tremors and fire would also be affecting their underground realm, if indeed they have any presence on the island anymore, which is more than I know.”

“Is there a way to find out?” Angharad asked. “Can we contact them?”

Her aunt gave her a strange, guarded look. “There is only one foolproof way that I know of to get their attention, and it is…a very grave risk. If it were attempted at all, it would have to be done without Regat’s knowledge.”

Eilwen looked up, her eyes glinting. “Why? What’s Mother got against the Fair Folk?” 

Arianrhod waved off her curiosity with a frown. “Later. That is not why I called you.” She hesitated, with the air of someone choosing words carefully.“Angharad, I spoke with your mother at length yesterday, after you left us. It took some time for her to compose herself. She was angry, of course, but also…greatly pained by several things you said. She cares for you, love, and takes great pride in you - though I confess she could show it more. But she fears for the kingdom if you cannot reconcile yourself to your obligations. She asks nothing of you that is uncommon to one in your position.”

Angharad glared at the spellbook stonily, and whispered, “She has no idea what she asks of me.”

Her companions were silent at this, so long that she glanced up reluctantly to find her aunt gazing at her with a sympathy so omniscient that she felt no shock, only a sort of guilty, sinking realization: Arianrhod knew. Arianrhod _always_ knew things like this. Angharad glared at Eilwen, intercepted the significant, silent look between her sister and aunt before Eilwen became intensely preoccupied with the fringe on a cushion. “Don’t look at me like that,” the girl muttered. “I haven’t said a word. You give it away just by _breathing._ ”

“It’s true, love,” Arianrhod said gently, before Angharad could retort. “No one told me. I’ve suspected you were in love for weeks from the increase in your power alone, and yesterday morning I knew; you were radiant with it. Don’t worry,” she added, seeing the anxious question forming on her lips, “Regat doesn’t know. She is preoccupied, and even were it not so, she lacks our perception in such matters.” She laid a cool hand upon her niece’s hot cheek, slender fingers combing back her tangled hair, and murmured, “Tell me about him.”

Angharad opened her mouth to say…nothing; no words came, only a flood of feeling. She burst into tears and slumped against her aunt, sobbing. Arianrhod enfolded her in her arms, held her against her shoulder, rocking and crooning as though to a small child. Presently the little handmaiden returned with their tea, and Arianrhod helped her sit back up, handing her a cup and a handkerchief. “There, now. You’ll feel better for letting it all out…oh, Trina, thank you; run along back to bed, dear; it’s much too early.”

The girl curtsied and retreated; Arianrhod rose to ensure she was out of earshot, shutting the door to the hallway, and returned to the couch. “Your heart is too full just now to speak of him; it’s all right; all in good time. I won’t tell you what you should do, but…if it comes to it, darling, you wouldn’t be the first in our line to wed one man and love another. In fact there are those who would call it the safer course not to esteem your consort too well.”

Angharad sniffed and crumpled the handkerchief against her nose. “ _Safer_ , what does that mean? Isn’t it a shameful thing to carry on an affair?”

“You make it sound like it’s never done,” Eilwen said, with an unladylike snort. “You _know_ on the mainland half the kings keep mistresses and no one says a thing.”

Angharad scowled. “One of many things on the mainland we _don’t do here._ Or so I thought. I still don’t see how the word _safe_ applies to any deception.”

“Oh, there’s no deception,” Arianrhod put in. “It’s more of what you might call an open secret. But what I meant by _safe_ …” she paused, and put a hand to her brow as if warding off a headache. “Girls, there is…oh, _Llyr,_ ” she sighed, “this isn’t why I called you. But it’s time you knew.” She took a long sip of her tea, swirled the contents of her cup and stared at them intently, as though she might see something of import there. She took a breath. “Your mother and I never speak of our father. You might have noticed.”

“We never speak of ours either,” Eilwen pointed out blandly, “since Mother never does. I just thought it was a family trait.” Angharad favored her with a grateful half-smile; she returned it and added, “So what of him?”

Arianrhod rose and laid her cup upon a sidetable; she crossed to a casement and pushed the shutter open. Outside the sky was still dark, but the green smells of the grove wafted in, fresh and soothing. “We loved him,” she said simply, gazing out at the darkness. “Devotedly. He was a wonderful man; charming, charismatic. A brilliant enchanter and skilled in administration. Always active, curious, adventurous — when we were small children we sought out his company over anyone else’s and he welcomed us. Regat was especially close to him; she had his determination and sharp, strategic mind.”

She turned from the window and Angharad thought she looked old, suddenly, her clear eyes full of griefs, lingering like the shadows after a storm. “Our mother – your grandmother, Queen Mererid,” she continued, “was very fond of him –like most marriages of the royal line, theirs began as an alliance of power, but she grew to both trust and love him in time. She gave him an unprecedented amount of autonomy and authority. He could make and adjust policy on minor matters without consulting her. And she allowed him the unsupervised and unfettered pursuit of his own magical prowess.”

Eilwen and Angharad exchanged astonished glances. “The law forbids that to a consort,” Angharad exclaimed.

“That is a recent law,” Arianrhod said grimly, “penned by your grandmother to prevent what befell us from ever recurring. Our father was ambitious; most intelligent men are; eventually his studies led him to seek out a source of magic he greatly desired. He consulted no one on his plans, ignored both tradition and edict, thought only of the power inherent, the good he could do with it, the protection it could offer. Not, perhaps, an ignoble cause, but…” she swallowed, and continued, “He traveled to the forbidden quarter, and breached Pentre Gwyllion.”

 _“Oh.”_ It was a voiceless exclamation, a released breath of surprise and dismay from both sisters. The northeast section of the island was well-known by all the inhabitants of Llyr to be forbidden to human access; it was set aside, a sacred space, its highest point crowned by a massive ring of standing stones, sprouting from the earth like decaying teeth – Pentre Gwyllion, the Village of Spirits. Legend held that in the center of the stone ring lay the barrow wherein King Llyr had been laid to rest, and where his sons, in their war for the throne, had committed their sacrilege upon his body.

Angharad shook off her shock and tried to remember what she had read of the place. “I thought…I thought it was legend. Then there _is_ something magic at Pentre Gwyllion? Something he knew about?”

“He suspected,” Arianrhod murmured. “ _What_ he suspected, I do not know. You know quite well we do not speak of that place. But that brings me back to your question earlier. Breaching the stone ring is the only way I know of to summon the Fair Folk without fail, but when they come in that manner, they are not likely to come amicably. Pentre Gwyllion —indeed, the forbidden quarter in its entirety — belongs to them, in a treaty going back to Queen Penarddun herself. An exchange for some service they did her during the war. Our records do not go back so far; all we have are stories.”

 _Stories,_ Angharad thought, with a pang. “Then…then when he entered the ring, it actually summoned the Fair Folk?”

Eilwen looked wry. “If it was the Gwyllion he summoned, I daresay they weren’t terribly _fair_.”

Arianrhod frowned at her. “It’s no laughing matter. When lore tells you a thing has a frightening aspect, there’s usually a reason for it. They are not to be trifled with, and take vows made in honor very seriously – as do all the Folk, far more so than most men, I regret to say. And in even the best of circumstances the Gwyllion are not kind to those whom they perceive as thieves, which was the case for our father. They might have slain him on the spot were he not who he was; as it was he pled his status as consort to the throne.”

Angharad sucked in her breath in horror. “And they thought he was there on the queen’s authority?”

“Oh, no. If she’d sent him it might have been different. But they sent him back to Caer Colur in bondage,” her aunt answered grimly. “There was a tremendous outcry. Father was put on trial – it was the only way to appease their sense of justice and prevent the possibility of something worse. He was convicted of attempted theft and deliberate breach of Treaty. And Regat…” Her voice shook and she fell silent, looked away, took a breath, steady. “Regat was just eighteen, and as is procedural for the heir, was tasked with the sentencing.”

Angharad knew the standard sentence for such a crime. The blood drained from her face. “She banished him,” she whispered.

 _“Llyr,”_ Eilwen breathed, white-faced.

Arianrhod stood silent, breathing in the cool air from the grove as it flowed through her open window. The world outside was faintly grey now, trees outlined pale and nebulous. “He was gone by the next day, and none of us saw him again. I was angry with her for a long time,” she said softly. “I’d been training here at the grove, of course, for five years at that point, and did not understand the seriousness of his crime, nor the extent that Regat was bound to the law. She would have turned to me for comfort, in the months immediately after the trial, but I would not speak to her. And Mother was never the same afterward. It broke her heart.”

“Is that…” Angharad faltered, and her aunt glanced at her gravely, guessing her question.

“Your mother closed herself off even to the idea of trusting or loving any man,” she said. “It was too painful a thing to lose. When she married, she made her choice from practicality. Your father Owen was honorable, good-humored, kind and discerning. They might have been very happy, if Regat had allowed her heart to be touched. As it was, she did what was required of her and little more in regard to him — it was a mark of his character that he bore his lot with such good grace. But from her point of view she lost little at his death, except the prospect of more children.

“There have been…dalliances, since then, that had little to do with love, but might have grown into it, if she had allowed herself. I had hopes for her, but…she gave each one up the moment she felt she was growing too attached. And that,” Arianrhod shrugged, sighing, “is what I meant by _safe_. I did not say I agreed with it.” She cupped her hand over the solid silver disk at her breast, the full moon that, like that of the queen, denoted her status as Mother. “Love is greater than magic alone; it is the fulfillment of our power, a completion, an image of the divine. To deliberately deny oneself any chance of it is to never know one’s full potential, to never…well,” she said, smiling at Angharad, “I don’t have to tell you, do I?”

Angharad blushed, and despite the sombre mood, failed to smother a self-conscious smile in time to hide it from Eilwen, who coughed peevishly. “Hmph. Should I leave you two alone with your delectable memories of happier times, or shall we get back to the topic at hand?”

Arianrhod cast her an amused, sympathetic look. “Don’t think I don’t remember what it was like before ordination, my dear. We have our own sort of trials here, sequestered as we are until then, but you’re only a year away from your freedom — and then Rhiannon have mercy on every man on this island,” she added under her breath, cupping her hand to her breast again. “Now, then. You know the truth — both why your mother is the way she is, and why she has not attempted to ask the Fair Folk for aid. She has an understandable grudge against them, though they were well within their rights. But beyond that, attempting to contact them is dangerous.”

“Given the danger we’re already in,” Angharad mused, “could it be worth the risk? If we approach them, not as potential thieves, but simply to propose an alliance?”

“Possibly. It is something to consider. Their power is significant, greater than ours in many areas, and they have remained loyal to the House of Llyr despite the trials. It was they who gave your mother that gem you wear, in fact,” Arianrhod said, indicating Angharad’s pendant with a nod. “A wedding gift. Sometimes I wonder if it was their way of apologizing.”

“This?” Angharad raised her hand automatically to the chain at her throat. “A Fair Folk gem? I never knew. Is it magic?” The tiny faceted edges pricked at her fingers, and she remembered the nick it had given her the day before.

“Almost certainly,” Arianrhod said lightly. “Their jewels usually are. But Regat never examined it very closely. She trusts Fair Folk magic as little as she trusts _them_. Have you ever sensed anything from it?”

“I would have said no, until yesterday.” She twisted it between thumb and forefinger curiously but it felt as ordinary as ever, cool and angled and diamond-hard. “I awoke from a very strange dream, and it…it was hot. It burned me when I touched it. That’s never happened before.”

Arianrhod looked puzzled, and Eilwen leaned forward, a quizzical spark in her green eyes. “Dream, what dream?”

“I can’t remember.” Angharad shut her eyes, trying to recall it. “Only that there were three stars. Or maybe it was just one, split into three.”

Eilwen sat back with a dissatisfied grunt. “Not much to go on. I told you ages ago you should write down your dreams. You’d remember them better; and then even if they’re nonsense they’re good for a laugh later.”

“Three in one is significant,” Arianrhod remarked, ignoring her niece’s flippancy. “If any more of it comes to you, bring it to me; and your sister is correct, for once; you should write it down. Now,” she added briskly, over Eilwen’s indignant huff, and stepped away from the lightening window, “here comes the sun, Belin be blessed, and we’ve not yet done the one thing I called you both here for.” She crossed to a table in the corner and brought back an enameled tray laid with ormer shells and sweetgrass, and knelt in the center of the room, where the carpet swirled in a complex, three-knotted symbol.The grass kindled at a snap of her fingers, and sweet smolder rose in lazy, grey-white serpentine threads. She motioned for her nieces to join her. “We have no proper altar here, but we must do what we can. Angharad, hand me the book. Let us see what the new moon can tell us about our island.”

“Before Mother sets a mad sorceress loose on it,” Eilwen added, sliding to the floor like an otter, heedless of her rumpled gown.

Angharad gave her right hand to her sister, her left to her aunt, and looked from one to the other, feeling sudden, overwhelming affection for them both, an intensity that robbed her breath and stung her eyes with grateful tears.They both waited while she knelt. Eilwen squeezed her hand.

“I told you,” she said, through a grin with more warmth and less mischief than her wont, “you’re not in this alone any longer.”


	17. Chapter 17

_Your ancestors did not survive_

_everything that nearly ended them_

_for you to shrink yourself_

_to make someone else_

_comfortable._

~Nikita Gill

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

There was no repeat of the total devastation they had seen in the full moon scry.

Instead the vision jumped from one strange scene to another in seemingly unrelated, haphazard fashion.They saw the fire writhing beneath the earth, sending its sickly fume wafting up in fissures and seeping from bogs; the creatures, human and animal, who breathed it and fell ill; others, further away, fleeing on instinct. Angharad recognized the distinct shape of the stone gates at Abegwy.

They watched a cliff collapse, felt the quake of its descent into the sea, the thunder of the hungry water as it devoured the rubble, heard the shrieking of gulls and puffins over their lost nests and drowning young.

Then...a land green and beautiful and empty, it seemed, of any human habitation, but for a woman who stood at its border, overlooking the sea. They could not see her face; could not tell by her figure if she were old or young; her hair was long and thick like a young woman’s but streamed behind her in silken strands that were silver as moonlight, and her arms reached out as though she called for something beyond their line of vision. Her robes shimmered and flashed so that their colors were impossible to define from any angle; they might have been black, or white, or silver, or crimson; in one slender white hand she held a jewel that glittered like fire and ice.

And then, in quick, dizzying succession: a green mound in the center of a circle of stone teeth; the remains of a wrecked and splintered boat, flung through breakers; their own Great Hall, hung with banners, full of faces like pale blotches and smudges of color. Before the throne stood a figure, hooded and cloaked, who held out empty hands as though in supplication, and in the space between the hands there flashed and glowed a symbol; a three-cornered shape of connected spirals of light...

Angharad’s gasp and lost concentration broke the spell. Arianrhod and Eilwen turned to her immediately. “My dream,” she whispered. “That symbol. That was in my dream.” But she could not remember what it had signified.

They searched the spellbook for the design, scanning page after page and coming up blank; discussed its possible significance until the brightening daylight and sounds of activity outdoors forced them all back to their respective routines. Arianrhod insisted that they meet again within a few days; new moon would be over, but plainly there was still something waiting to be revealed. Meanwhile, there were certain boundaries that could be erected against Achren’s potential mischief, and the sooner they got to work on them the better.

Angharad walked back to Eilwen’s quarters with her, weaving among the willows of the grove in the dappled morning light, the turf cool under their bare feet. “You’ve got to dream it again,” Eilwen insisted, as though dreams were things one could order like a favorite meal from the kitchens. “Put yourself in the same position you were in when you had it. Recreate it as much as you can — even your mental state at the time. And for all that’s sacred, whatever comes to you, write it down.”

“I’ll try,” Angharad promised doubtfully, “though I’m not sure I can ever conjure up anything quite like my mental state yesterday again.”

“Oh, I think I know how you could come close.” Eilwen raised her elegant black brows suggestively, then threw off any pretense at elegance with a grin. “When _are_ you going back to him, anyway?”

Angharad scowled as the heat rose in her face, for the question already weighed uncomfortably upon her. “I can hardly go back just now. It’s rather awkward.”

Eilwen rolled her eyes and waved this away as they crossed her threshold. “What’ll be awkward is if you disappear for four days with no explanation. You’ll send him into a frenzy. If that boy doesn’t know about women at new moon he might as well learn. I hear it embarrasses them to death on the mainland, but if he’s planning to stay here indefinitely he’s better off getting over it sooner rather than later.”

She hurriedly ran her fingers through her sleep-tousled braids as she talked, unraveling them. Taking up a comb, she pointed it at Angharad for emphasis and continued on. “Anyway, you still have supplies to gather; if the altar fire goes out Mother will want to know the reason. Just go, and tell him whatever you like. He needn’t expect a tumble every time he sees you just because it’s happened once.” Her eyes narrowed and she leaned toward her sister, emanating wicked glee. “Or is it just that _you_ don’t want to see _him_ if you can’t—,”

“Ugh.” Angharad shoved Eilwen backward onto her bed with a reluctant laugh and wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could be both as companionable and as odious as her sister managed to be simultaneously. “Of course I want to see him, you nit. I’d want to see him even if we never...but it isn’t...I don’t...” She waved a hand helplessly, staring into space, unable to put her feelings into words; they were too new, too close, too precious to speak about so casually.

Eilwen, busy fastening the long pearl strings of her rank into her hair, watched her with amusement. “Oh, my. So unusually inarticulate. I hope this isn’t the best I’m going to get out of you on the subject.”

“If it is, it’s still more than you’re entitled to,” Angharad retorted, finding her voice. “I’ll go back to him when I’m good and ready, and I’m not going to alert _you_ beforehand...or after, for that matter.”She thumped to the bed and maneuvered behind Eilwen, sat cross-legged at her back and pushed her sister’s hands away, taking up her silky black waves of hair in her own grasp. Eilwen sighed contentedly and settled against her knees in a position of old familiarity, tilting her head forward. “What did you make of the rest of it, though?” Angharad murmured presently as she braided. “That gate was Abegwy, I’m sure. And the stone ring...we only have the one on the island, but I’ve never seen it. Is it too coincidental that we should see it in a scry just after speaking of it?”

Eilwen’s slim shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “It could just be the spell mining our thoughts; that’s not unusual. But it _could_ indicate that Pentre Gwyllion might be involved in all this, somehow. Or the Folk, maybe. That’s the whole trouble with scrying, of course; it’s all a big game of what-ifs and puzzles and if you guess wrong there’s no one to tell you so.” She was silent for a moment and then murmured, low and reluctant. “Do you think the woman was Achren?”

Angharad shivered. “I don’t know who else it could be. She is silver-haired, according to legend. But it’s dangerous jumping to any conclusions. And it’s not as though it showed her doing anything terrible. Just standing there. And did you see that jewel she held?”

“It looked like yours,” Eilwen mused. “At least, it reminded me of yours, the colors in it. But again, it could have come up just because it was in our thoughts. It’s worth keeping in mind, though - _something_ happened with your gem yesterday, after all, and if it _is_ magic she’d love to get her hands on it, I daresay. Perhaps you should hide it when she comes. You’ve still got your old pendant, don’t you?”

“Somewhere. I’m sure Elen knows where it is.”

“Is she still cross with you?”

Angharad sighed. “No…not exactly.”

“She was beside herself when she came to me yesterday morning. You could have told her about him a long time ago, you know. She’d cut out her own tongue before she’d give away your secrets.”

“Mmph,” Angharad grunted, Eilwen’s comb clamped in her mouth. She squirmed inwardly at another pang of faint, unwelcome guilt, removed the comb and muttered, “Elen is.…possessive.”

“What did you expect?” Eilwen answered. “You could have picked two or three ladies-in-waiting, but you only ever wanted her, and she’s had barely a thought other than to serve and keep you company for years — what’s her life like, outside of waiting on you, do you even know?”

“I do,” Angharad retorted indignantly. “She has family, and her own pursuits in her free time. I’ve told her to tell me if she were ever unhappy.”

“But she isn’t,” said Eilwen, “or hasn’t been, anyway, because you were enough. And now, after all her years of faithful affection and service, suddenly she’s second choice of companion to some upstart who washes up on your beach and turns your head with a few stories and a lovely set of—,”

“Stop right there.”

“I was going to say teeth, you high-minded prig.”

“Of course you were.”

“He does have a beautiful smile,” Eilwen protested slyly, “but you’d know better than I what else there is. But that’s just it, you know; I see it all the time here: sisters and dear companions all in a snarl and snit because some man’s stepped in the middle. It won’t be easy for her. Be as kind to her as you can. Good servants are hard to come by, and good friends are rarer still.”

“I know,” Angharad sighed. “I’ve told myself all of it already. She’s pretending everything’s back to normal, though, and I can’t get past the wall, somehow.” She laid the comb on the side table and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her Eilwen’s shoulders and laying her cheek against her hair. “Thank you for coming out for me yesterday. Somehow it’s easier, having a few who know.”

Eilwen reached up and squeezed her wrist affectionately. “Big secrets get smaller the further they spread,” she quipped, quoting an old bardic proverb, “unlike rumors.” She wriggled up from the bed and shook out her gown. “What’s your plan today?”

Angharad stared thoughtfully at the counterpane. “Council meets this morning. I’ve not been to it in weeks, not since Mother released me from it, and I think, now, that that was a mistake.” She stood, feeling resolute about something for the first time in days. “The wood can wait, and Geraint too, at least a bit longer. I think I should know what else might be happening — besides using me as bait to lure enchanters.”

Eilwen paused in the doorway to kiss her in parting. “I’d ask you to tell me about it later, but it would take even more than your unexpected entrance to make a Council meeting exciting, I think. Come, I’ve got to get to morning rites. See you at baths in a few days — if not before.”

When Angharad entered the council chamber, the expressions on the faces of the members already gathered about the table as they scrambled to rise to their feet gave her a certain amount of morbid satisfaction. Surprise, discomfort, sheepishness...even a twinge of sympathy, from several. So. She had suspected correctly - they knew of her impending betrothal, and no doubt had their own opinions on whether she had acquiesced to the idea graciously. She wrestled down a temptation toward resentment. It would be unfair to be angry with any of them over not telling her ahead of time; Regat had, no doubt, forbidden it.

Angharad had not gone to breakfast and thus not seen her mother since the rather disastrous meal the morning before; now, knowing what she knew, she could not bring herself to look upon her in anger. Regat, already seated at the head of the council table, regarded her with wary surprise, and did not deign to break the silence that had fallen upon her entrance, though she returned the nod her daughter offered.

Their Chief Steward, Caradoc, recovered first - a knack for thinking on his feet having been one of the qualifications that had earned him his position, in which he had served since her childhood. He extended her a punctilious hand. “Princess. It is an honor to have you with us again. Might we hope your return marks the successful conclusion of the business that has deprived us of your participation?”

Oh, gods. She held her breath to keep from laughing at the sheer lunacy of it. _Yes, well, we’re probably fighting an invisible battle against a lord of death, consorting with an insane tyrannical sorceress in secret, trying to prevent catastrophe, and meanwhile I’ve just —how do they put it on the mainland? — ruined my honor. Can’t say it’s finished, but business as usual, isn’t it? All in a day’s work._

With great effort, she kept her face blank as she took his offered hand. “Thank you, Caradoc. My duties...” Her voice shook in spite of herself and she cleared her throat. “My duties continue to be...pressing, but I have missed Council for too long. I think it prudent to make it a priority, going forward, no matter the dictates of my schedule. Decisions have been made, in my absence, in which I should have liked to have had more input, or at least...awareness.” 

Caradoc’s face twitched, a subtle mirror of the awkward rustle that rippled through the rest of the chamber.She saw him start to glance toward the queen and halt himself; instead he bowed his head slightly and led her to her chair without further comment. Angharad sat; the Council followed suit, and if the women around the table were as unlikely, for once, as the men, to meet her eyes, she wasted no energy regretting it.

Regat shifted in her seat. “I am sure the Council welcomes your input, as ever, my daughter, and also is grateful for your commitment to any duty important enough to keep you from its meetings.” Their eyes met across the table; the queen was first to blink and look away. “Now, then. We may begin. Lord Pwyll, what news from your district?”

A litany of ill-tidings followed, none of it surprising by now, as representatives from each region passed along their gathered woes. Regat listened to each without change in expression. Angharad fought to keep the anxiety she felt from manifesting on her face. The fear and tension in the chamber were almost palpable, quivering like an overstuffed pudding, ready to burst.

Amynwy of Afon, a middle-aged woman who spoke on behalf of the settlements along the river valley, was the last to report. Angharad had noticed her frowning during Pwyll’s tirade, which had come off as rather petulant as his district was actually faring better than most, and now as she rose she cast him a scathing look. In better times, her dry wit and unapologetic airing of hard truths had made her a respected favorite with the royal family, but there was no laughter in her dark eyes today. “Your Majesty, with respect, some action must be taken in Abegwy. The people there are ready to revolt. More fall ill daily despite the restrictions; there is rumor that the pestilence emanates from the valley itself and that they are being detained there to die.”

Before Regat could speak, Pwyll interrupted. “We cannot risk the spread of disease to more areas, no matter what irrational beliefs are spawned by the fear in one.”

It was an unsurprising remark, for Pwyll’s own lands bordered the portion of the river valley adjacent to the village. “Perhaps Lord Pwyll would care to visit them on his way home,” Amynwy suggested, with icy sweetness, without looking at him, “and see just how irrational they are.”

Pwyll sniffed. “The people of Abegwy look for any reason to expand into neighboring territories. Terribly convenient, isn’t it, to need to clear out of their own village and go on a permanent visit to friends and relatives…or desirable lands…nearby?”

“Have you ever had to move an entire village, you pompous ass?” Amynwy demanded coolly, turning to stare him down. He jerked as though to leap to his feet, and then seemed to think better of it; she would still have been taller than he. “It’s the furthest thing from convenient. If you’re unwilling to have a few sick peasants caravan through your holdings, say so and have done with it - but I warn you, the way the tides are turning, you may have them spilling into it anyway, whether you will or no, and you’d be better off allowing it done in orderly fashion than trying to clear up the chaos otherwise.”

“I knew it!” Pwyll exclaimed. “My queen, I must protest against this abuse. Anyone would think it was _I_ who insisted on closing off the village.”

“It was,” Regat intoned wryly. “Your memory is short, Lord Pwyll.”

“I…” he looked desperately in her direction, his gaze jumping nervously to avoid her eyes. “Your Majesty agreed that it was the best course! Naturally, the people are afraid, but to allow them to leave Abegwy is to permit the spread of pestilence — nay, practically to encourage it! This nonsense of it coming from the valley—,”

“They’re right,” Angharad interrupted, suddenly.

Every eye turned to her. Pwyll, shocked into silence, accidentally looked directly at her for a fraction of a moment before dropping his gaze and stammering, “I…beg your pardon, Highness?”

Angharad bit her lip, her mind racing. If she were wrong, if she misinterpreted…but it was too timely to be a coincidence. She took a breath, straightened her back, head high.“That is, about the origin of the pestilence. Not about being detained to die...though that’s what will happen, if we don’t release them.”

A burst of indignant and excited chatter broke around the table and Regat silenced it with an impatient wave of her arm, her heavy sleeve trailing like the broken wing of a fallen eagle. “And on what do you base this information?” she asked — to her credit, with less incredulity than the situation might warrant.

“I...” Angharad swallowed. “I had a vision of it.” Well, it was true, sort of. No need to detail that Eilwen and Arianrhod had seen the same thing, scrying outside the queen’s knowledge not five hours ago. “I saw it — the sickness. It’s coming up from the ground, poisoning the air. The animals have all left that could. That’s why the crofters’ sheep have disappeared, the ones that survived — nothing has taken them, they’ve just sensed it and run off. If we release them and get the people out of the area, they should recover. I think.” She held her mother’s gaze, silently trying to convey the rest. There was no need to remind Regat of what was happening beneath the earth in the valley.

The queen stared back, this time not bothering to silence the reaction in the chamber. “Are you certain?”

“I am certain of what I saw,” Angharad answered, raising her voice to be heard over the murmur. “But there is no harm in putting my perception to the test. Move the people out. They need not put any villages in danger, or encroach upon Lord Pwyll’s land; we could send enough supplies and soldiers to guide them safely through, and assist in setting up an encampment in the unsettled area to the east, away from any other population. If they recover then we will know the truth of it.”

Finely attuned to her mother’s unspoken indications, she saw the subtle droop of her silk-wrapped shoulders as Regat slowly, cautiously leaned back in her seat. “So be it,” the queen declared. “It is a sound plan, except that that area is unsettled because the terrain is unfriendly, even for those in robust health. Lord Pwyll will temporary relinquish, from his holdings, the space from the border of the valley east to the hills, and from his southern border to the old wall of Heli that crosses his lands; a…convenient…boundary, I think,” here her mouth twitched, “for the encampment. We will see that he is compensated in accordance with his…hospitality to his neighbors in their time of need.” She turned a deceptively bland face upon Pwyll, who had stood up to protest the arrangement. His mouth opened, closed again, and he sank slowly back into his chair.

Regat looked back to Angharad. “You may confer with the Lady Amynwy and see to the execution of this plan yourself, Angharad.” A light gleamed faintly, deep in her dark eyes. “If the people of Abegwy are saved she will see that they know by whose will and wisdom their deliverance came.”

Angharad sat back, releasing a breath she had not realized she was holding. She barely heard the rest of the meeting as the councilors traded assessments and potential solutions. Even the pleasure of Regat’s unspoken approval and her own vindictive satisfaction when she noted Pwyll’s resentful sulking could not drive the unease from her mind at the immediate and uncanny accuracy of the vision - one part of it, anyway, but if it were true, what of the rest? The silver-haired woman, the ring of stone teeth…the boat, crushed into flotsam among pounding breakers. _Geraint’s boat?_

No. _Stop._ There was no way of knowing it was his, a nondescript wooden craft, as like to any other of its kind, common among the fisherfolk. His wasn’t even repaired yet, and he wasn’t going anywhere soon, besides. The boat in the vision could be anyone’s.

Her hands trembled in her lap and she clutched her skirts to make them stop. _Anyone’s._

She came back to herself with a little start at a sudden rumbling of wooden chair legs across the floor; the council was dismissed, and Angharad rose as its members bowed to her mother and then to her. They filed out of the room, mumbling to each other, mostly in a disgruntled-sounding way. Amynwy came to stand before her, inclining her head respectfully. “Your assistance on behalf of the people is a very welcome relief, milady.” Her strong features broke into a warm, sincere smile. “If I may, it truly is a pleasure to have you with us again.”

“Lady Amynwy has missed your laughter at her jokes, I daresay,” Regat put in drily from the head of the table, from which she had not moved. “And as she is one of few still able to find humor in much of anything these days, so have we all.”

“As long as we have fools like Pwyll on the Council we shall always have a source of humor,” Amynwy declared, with a return of her usual snap. “That _is_ why you keep him on, I assume.”

Regat’s mouth twitched again. “Naturally. If members of sense cannot be found we must have entertainment at least.”

Amynwy turned back to Angharad, who broke in swiftly, before she could lose her nerve. “Would you meet me in the Hall in a few minutes for further discussion of the plans, then? I would like to speak with the queen alone.”

“Indeed.” Amynwy’s smile turned to what could only be described as an irreverent grin. “Is there any of that marvelous stuff you all import from those barbarians in the north?”

“A shipment came in two days ago,” Regat answered, motioning toward the door. “Enjoy our hospitality, and I’ll have Caradoc send you home with a keg of it.”

Amynwy saluted her with a flourish, grin widening. “Long live the queen! — and the northern barbarians, too.” She bowed to them both; her deep chuckle trailing as she left the room. When Angharad turned back to her mother, Regat’s face was creased in a rare and rusty smile.

“She never curtsies,” she observed amusedly, and transferred her gaze to her daughter. The smile faded, but her gaze was less stern and more thoughtful than Angharad expected. “Well?”she asked, in a tone halfway between challenge and invitation.

The princess twisted her hands behind her back. “Mother....” Words were elusive; she hunted for the right ones, pulled them out like stubborn mollusks from their shells. “What happened yesterday...I spoke rashly. I am...sorry that I lost my composure so, though I do not...I cannot...agree with the course you have chosen.” Regat blinked slowly at this, and Angharad took a breath, steadying herself. “But I know that you believe it to be the best, and that all you do is in service of the kingdom, no matter the...the sacrifice. I will do what is in my power to protect it with you.” She looked down at the table, traced the triple-moon symbol inlaid into its surface, dented and scratched with the errant implements of multiple generations of councils. “We cannot be effective if we are divided, and there is grief enough outside these walls without inviting it to our own table.”

Regat observed her seriously and silently for a few moments. “That was well-spoken,” she said finally. “And far more worthy of you than your outburst yesterday — though that, I can also understand, better than you know. That oath you swore cannot be so easily undone, but perhaps...” she sighed, and her eyes traveled down the tapestries that hung the length of the chamber, the figures of their history: time, caught in colored silk and wool, stitched by fingers that had been ash upon the water decades ago. “Perhaps it is time. Nothing exists in one form forever, and the tides cannot be bottled up. We move with them, not against them.”

Her eyes returned to Angharad and lingered on her. “You are resigned to your duty to wed?”

A cold tremor passed through the princess. Everything in her clamored to run from the room, or at least to collapse into the nearest chair. She planted her feet instead, drew her shoulders back, heard the voice of her old governess in her head: _Head up. Stand strong even when you do not feel it. A queen bows to no one._ “I am not. But I will choose a suitor.” Her voice betrayed her at the end, quavering, and she stopped, gathered herself before carrying on, “I will do what must be done.”

“May Rhiannon grant you happiness,” Regat responded quietly. “Or contentment, at least. Who knows? Perhaps we shall all be surprised by who answers the summons.” She made a movement as if to rise from her chair, then paused. “This vision of yours...how did it come?”

Angharad trembled. “It…I was…I had a dream.” _Llyr._ It shouldn’t be this difficult, should it? She’d been deceiving her mother for weeks, on matters far more serious; why should a half-truth to her face seem so much worse?

Regat considered her. “Was there any more?”

“A bit. I cannot remember most of it.” She wondered how much was safe to reveal. Regat might have information the rest of them did not. “There was a shape. Three stars, and three spirals, like…hm.” A stack of parchments and an inkwell sat in one corner, where the scrivener recorded the decisions of the council. Angharad took up a quill and scratched at a corner of the parchment, drew out the three-spiraled symbol and pushed the sheet across the table to Regat. “It looked like this. The stars were at the centers of the spirals. I saw it twice.”

The queen took it up and studied the symbol. “Clearly a mark of power, but not one with which I am familiar,” she murmured. “And it was this morning, the dream?”

“I saw it yesterday as well.” How many half-truths did it take to make a whole truth; or did too many of them just tie themselves into knots and make one giant lie? Angharad edged toward the door. “I should get to the Hall. I don’t want to keep Amynwy waiting.”

“She’ll be happy enough with that malt,” Regat rumbled, then shrugged, “but this business with Abegwy must be sorted. Yes, go — I shall think on this mark, when I have a chance; let me know about any more of such visions. How are supplies for the rituals? Is there enough wood in the grove?”

Angharad froze, and brought her hand to her throat to hide the pulse that throbbed there. “I’ll need to go collect again tomorrow.”

“Very well. You’ve been most diligent. I do notice, you know.” Regat rose at last, and stepped around the table, her gown trailing in a heavy river of rustling silk. She paused before Angharad, and set a hand to her chin, lifting it, directing her daughter’s troubled gaze to meet her own. “I gave you the task because I know how you love the shore. I hope the frequency of your visits there has given you some solace in the midst of all this trouble.”

Angharad’s heart raced. She thought, frantically, that she would either break into hysterical laughter or burst into tears, but she did neither. With a mental strength she had not known she possessed she stared back at her mother, at the lines worn around her dark eyes, the sculpted features, once stunningly beautiful, gradually softening with weary age, the weight of grief and trouble and care that marked her proud visage.

“It has,” Angharad whispered.

It was, after all, no lie.


	18. Chapter 18

_The smell of her hair_

_The taste of her mouth_

_The feeling of her skin_

_Seemed to have got inside him,_

_Or into the air all round him._

_She had become_

_A physical necessity._

~George Orwell

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

Stories often meddled with time.

A good teller knew when to speed it up: quickening the pace, the blood, the breath of the listeners, drawing their attention always to the next moment before they quite knew what they had just seen and heard, until they blinked and an hour had gone by like a flash. Or slow it down, spinning a moment out long, like a thread from a clump of wool, to play upon the perception of an audience, increase tension, leave space for mystery, for questions, for guesses. Geraint had always had a good instinct for how to manipulate the concept of time.

Yet he could never have predicted that two days could be such an eternity.

He hadn’t expected Angharad to return immediately, of course. Nor did he really expect her to come the next day; her visits were never that frequent, though he allowed himself to hope that perhaps, she might dare to increase their occurrence now...

It was not desire that made him frantic, though it was strong; he craved her presence as he might crave food or water or sunlight had he been deprived of them. But desire he could control; he’d buried it long enough, knew how to distract himself from its grip, even now, when it fed off of heady experience rather than vain imaginings. It was not passion but fear that stole his peace, that kept him checking the cliff tops, scanning the path down into the cove every few minutes for any sign of her, praying for the relief of knowing she had not met with some consequence too harsh to consider, or wasn’t locked in the castle to prevent any further forbidden liaisons. Fear that perhaps...perhaps that she had come to her senses, once back in her proper place and position, and now regretted her rashness, regretted everything.

He threw himself desperately into whatever work he could find; his garden, gathering her driftwood, the boat — he had promised her; he pulled it further up the beach, out of the reach of the corrosive fingers of the lapping wavelets, and set to work with his bartered tools, trying to keep his will on that which he could affect. In his mind he saw her sitting in its prow, and he told himself stories that all ended with their leaving; in them he bore her away from this island that bound her, breaking all the ties that would not let her be free. In them, she went with him joyfully, and as he worked the salt that stung his eyes might have been sweat, or it might not.

Three times he began to walk in the direction he had watched her disappear with her companions, three times with some vague thought of approaching the castle, but without any idea of how, when he got there, to discover where she was or what she was doing or whether she was all right, and each time he had paced like a wolf in the tall sea-grass and stared at the grey towers in the distance, the fortress that held her, that could not be breached—not by him, anyway. He was powerless; must wait for her. How long must he wait, just to know? There was nothing he could do, and he had always chafed at doing nothing.

He walked to Abernant on the second day, with some thought that if their princess had been caught in a scandal the village would be abuzz with the news. But there was nothing out of the ordinary; the fright over the rumors from the eastern tradesmen was fading, and people greeted him cordially, though the children found him less entertaining than usual. He could not concentrate well enough to tell any new stories.

On the third day he woke before sunrise from a fitful sleep to the whispering rush of a heavy rain outside, a sound that filled all his senses in a thundering flood of memory. He buried his face in the place in his pallet that had ceased, at last, to smell even faintly of her, and groaned aloud; rolled to his back in an agony of anxiety. Guilt loomed over him like a fell bird of prey, the weight of it settling on his chest.

What man was he? He could have stopped her, should have; she had been insistent, it was true, but no matter what she’d done he could have refused, if he’d cared more about her virtue than his passions. If he’d considered, for one second, her state at the time. She’d been frantic, vulnerable, incapable of thinking through her actions, and he had let it all work to his advantage. How could he have done it? If she never came back it would be only what he deserved; perhaps she was angry with him, or repented so much of their recklessness that she would never want to see him again, to be reminded of it.

Or perhaps...perhaps she wasn’t sorry, but he should be, to allow her to divide her loyalty between him and her position; to compromise her honor for him. He should leave before she lost herself any further, to prevent them both from making more grave mistakes and potentially suffering their consequences; it was folly to think they could go on indefinitely this way. He would leave his heart behind, but he could bear the loss if only he knew she were all right, that one moment of madness had not brought her to ruin; only reassure himself that she had not been found out and then he could take his boat and disappear...

But he had promised her he would stay.

As long as she needed him. Did she really need him, or only think she did? Was he really no more than a distraction from the urgent matters that demanded her attention, the duties she referenced vaguely and reluctantly, the dark forces at work that he barely understood? He had little concept of what her daily life was like outside this cove; she spoke of it only when pressed, or dropped a vague mention, here and there, her face clouded with ambivalence. Yet that life was the one she must live, and he —where was his place in it?

Geraint groaned again and cursed whatever gods had denied him a drop of magical ability, a thing it had never occurred to him to desire before. Where his heart, his skill, his knowledge, his will to protect her, his desire to make her laugh and light her eyes with joy were not enough... some fool whose only qualification, possibly, was an ability to turn people into toads would have her.

Intolerable. She was worth so incalculably more than that.

He got up and tore through his door, the rain a cold relief against his feverish face; he stumbled to the beach, toward the groaning mutter of the restless sea. It was dark as pitch and he could see nothing; he followed the sound and plowed violently into the water. Breakers smashed into him like fists, pushing him back, only for the current to catch and pull him forward, as inexorable as his memory of the cling of her arms, until he stood submerged to his waist. He threw his arms out as the next breaker rushed upon him; stumbled, shouting his defiance as it crashed, and waited for the next, and the next, blinded by darkness and rain as the water pummeled him relentlessly to his knees.

The sea battered him until he fell, and the waves, no longer resisted, carried him back up to the beach. The first pale light broke the clouds in the east, their remnants torn like shreds of wool from wandering sheep, caught in the brambles that grew at the cliff tops, and the rain faded to a gentle patter, a final caress upon him as he sat, knees drawn up, head bowed, and waited, despairingly, for another day.

Hunger pangs forced him up and back to the hut after a time; listlessly and mechanically he cleared out the wet ashes from his cooking fire and rekindled it with embers from the indoor hearth, stoking it until it blazed, watching the sparks scurry. Fire. That made him think of her too. He could not push her from his thoughts no matter where he turned; fire on one side and sea on another and there she was, standing right there on the other side of the garden...

Geraint dropped the branch he held with a cry as she ran to him; he stumbled the last few steps to close the gap and she fell into his arms. For long moments he let the warm reality of her banish all his self-reproach, abandoning thought, living only within the space between their lips, between their heartbeats. Let this be...just a few more minutes. Perhaps he could stretch time if he held on long enough.

Angharad clung to him with a fierceness that eliminated any notion of regret on her part; he hid his face in her hair and listened to the sigh of his name on her breath. Presently she shifted, and raised her head to study him quizzically. “You’re all wet,” she said, and murmured that string of by-now familiar gibberish. A quiver, like the prickling slide of a hairbrush, ran over him from head to toe, and he was dry. She resettled herself against his chest. “Why were you out in the—no,” she said, in surprise, bunching his shirt fabric in one hand and inhaling its scent. “Not rain. You’ve been in the sea, clothes and all. If you want to swim, wait for me next time.” Her amused eyes rose to his, sobering when she saw his expression. “What is it?”

He could not bear her so close, could not bear to let go. “I have been so afraid.”

She stiffening, searching his face. “Of what?”

“That you’d been found out. That I had ruined you.” His voice scraped like the rasp of a farrier’s file. “That you could never forgive me for it. It shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let you...I cannot forgive myself. I had no right to...”

He trailed off at her expression: she had blanched white and was shaking her head, in horror or disbelief; her mouth mutely formed the word “no”, as though she did not have the strength to push it out. “But you did nothing wrong,” she choked out, clutching at his shirt, “nothing that I did not ask of you, and nothing that I reproach you for.”

“But you should,” Geraint whispered, his heart wrung out by the pain in her voice. “And even if you do not, I reproach myself. I could have stopped you; I should have. You were in no state to make decisions and I...I took no thought of your—”

She cut him off, almost angrily. “You speak as though it was nothing but a moment of madness. Was it really so meaningless to you?”

“ _By the gods, Angharad_ ,” he burst out, agonized. “I have loved you since that first day you found me here. You _know_ it. I have fought it until I was sick with it, knowing I could never have you.” She buried her face in his shoulder, shaking, and he wound his fingers through her hair and gripped it as though it were a net that might save him from falling into darkness. “But it is no excuse. It is all the more reason I should have had more thought for your honor.”

“Honor!” Angharad let go of him and took a step back; she was trembling, her whole figure tensed like a cornered wildcat. “What is honor?” she demanded desperately. “Just a word, a shackle…to bind people into behaving how someone else thinks they should? Who decides? In a few weeks, I shall be forced to give myself to some man I have never met. That I feel _nothing_ for.” It was a broken cry, flung at him like a dagger to the heart; he almost cried out at the pain of it. “But it will be a contract, enforced and sanctioned by laws I did not make and cannot change,” she went on, relentlessly, her voice thick with anguish, eyes welling over and spilling their brilliance at his feet, “so men will call _that_ honor, and say that what we have shared is shame.”

He had nothing to answer, nothing that made any sensible defense. Her perceptive outrage battered against every notion of chivalry driven into him from his boyhood; trapped him between her truth and his own. Angharad stepped forward again and seized his head in her hands, pulled him down until her forehead pressed against his, as if by forcing him to face her she could shrink his fear small, melt it away like frost in the heat of their mingled breath. “I will not,” she whispered hoarsely, “give you up for the sake of such a worthless word.”

Geraint quaked, his defenses shattered; he surrendered as she locked her arms around him and melted against him; lost himself again in the quicksilver flood of lightning through his veins. The salt of her tears and the sweetness of her mouth mingled on his lips. How had he ever thought he could stop her? Ludicrous idea…he was wax in her hands, molded at her will; he wondered, vaguely, if he really were enchanted, ensnared by some magic that bound him without mercy. Not that it mattered. Fear and doubt still prodded at the edges of his consciousness, but their feeble voices could not push past the fire that gripped him, the anticipatory blaze of wanting nothing but her; he gave himself up to it, willingly consumed.

But far too soon, Angharad shuddered and broke away from him, with obvious reluctance; she tugged his hands away from their eager meanderings and shook her head. “Not…not this time,” she mumbled breathlessly, “I cannot.”

“Oh,” he gasped out, in surprise and disappointment.

“It’s not you,” she explained, apologetic, her eyes dark. “It’s new moon. I am…indisposed, just now.”

Geraint blinked at her in confusion, trying to discern the meaning she clearly was hoping he would; it took a moment, but he finally remembered remarks he had overheard from his sister, from girls in the Rover camp at certain times and seasons. “Oh,” he said again, a sigh of mild frustration. “Is that…erhm….well. Maybe it’s just as well.”

A spark of humor crossed her flushed face. “What do you mean by that?”

“More time for you to think it over,” he said quietly. “To be sure that...that carrying on like this...is really what you want.”

She squinted at him. “There you go again.” Her head bowed, brow nestling at his chin; she pressed her palm to his and wove their fingers together. “I have found it difficult to think of anything else, these two days and nights,” she murmured. “If you care so much for honor, do me that of believing that I know my own mind.”

“It can’t go on forever.”

She shivered. “Nothing does. But I would rather be yours alone for the little time we have, than never again at all.”

He tangled his free hand into her hair again. “And if someone finds out?”

“They won’t,” she whispered.

“Two have already, I might remind you.”

She froze, and then chuckled low. “All right. Three, actually — my aunt knows. And she has told me such things that have set me...more at ease. I _am_ in authority, you know — as I remembered myself, recently. I will never let you be harmed for my sake. I’ll...I’ll say you were obeying my orders, and had no choice.”

“You’d better give me a few, then,” he suggested, nuzzling at her ear, “so it won’t be a lie.”

The curve of her cheek swelled against his jaw, and he knew she was smiling. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

“Promise?”

Something between a chuckle and a groan pushed itself from her throat, and she pulled away from him hastily. “ _Belin._ I’ll never get my work done. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

Despite his misgivings, Geraint could not suppress a grin at her flustered expression. “Is that an order?”

“For today, it is. Next time I visit you may distract me in any manner you choose. And yes,” she added, with a sidelong, arch glance, “that is an order.”

This filled his mind with such entrancing and overwhelming ideas that he found it necessary to change the subject, and cleared his throat, casting about for a new one. She was dressed, he noted, in the tunic and leggings that meant she expected to be climbing. “Sweetgrass today?” he queried, and she smirked at the strain in his voice.

“Yes. Stores are low…of everything.” Her face clouded. “It seems we are beset on all sides. I cannot tell if what we are doing is helping.”

“And what of this scheme you told me of? Is that still in place?”

Angharad frowned anxiously and glanced out toward the water. “It is. Achren is coming — soon, I think, though I do not know exactly when.” She gestured vaguely at the sea. “Mother believes she has bound her effectively enough not to put us in danger. But I have my doubts, as do my aunt and sister. We are working at further defenses, without my mother’s knowledge. There have been…” she trailed off, thoughtfully, and looked back at him. Her face softened and she held out a hand. “Come, keep me company at the cliffs. I have much to tell you.”

Her outstretched hand was bound in linen and he took it in concern to examine it. “What happened?”

She grimaced. “That’s one of the things I’ll tell you.”

He walked with her, hand-in-hand, across the cove toward the jutting shelves of black stone, thinking wonderingly of the last time he had stood with her here, not three full days previous, and how utterly everything had changed since then. Angharad halted, staring at the space where his boat now lay, his tools scattered around it and the skeleton of its hull exposed. “Oh,” she said, in a voice whose quaver belied its attempt to sound pleasantly surprised rather than dismayed, “you’ve been working on it.”

Geraint squeezed her hand. “That was also an order,” he murmured.

“I suppose it was,” she said faintly, “though I hope…” she stopped, and strode on again, and did not finish the thought.

Angharad scaled the cliff face and whipped out the silver sickle, scrambling carelessly across the precarious surface and slicing grass tufts with swift efficiency; he panted as he clung to the rock beneath her, trying to ignore the visions of her slipping and tumbling to the bottom that kept presenting themselves to his imagination. She looked back at him now and then with a knowing glint in her eye, and kept up a steady flow of conversation that he suspected was meant, at least partially, to distract him.

In this she was moderately successful, for whatever her claims of where her thoughts had been, it was evident that she had had plenty to occupy them since their last parting. Passionate declarations, blood oaths, dreams, visions and heretofore unknown family histories all spilled from her lips at a rate somewhat difficult to follow. He listened with little comment, until she had climbed back to the grassy ledge they had shared previously — so long ago, as it seemed now— and beckoned him up again to join her there.

Geraint scrambled over the edge and settled himself in the turf; she sat next to him and laid out her grass, piecing it out on a swath of linen and drawing out a length of twine. He reached out to examine a bundle, and she slapped his hand lightly away. “Don’t touch it,” she admonished him mildly. “It’s only for me to handle.”

“Sorry.” He held up both hands in mock remorse. “Is the goddess offended by the touch of a man, then? That wasn’t the impression I got from her priestess...” He coughed; she was looking at him sideways, mouth twitching.

“Not at all.” Angharad grinned. “She approves of it wholeheartedly — in its good time, at any rate. But for this particular ritual…it’s just how it’s done. I’m sure my aunt could tell you why; it isn’t _my_ expertise; just my duty. A Daughter of Llyr always harvests the grass. Eilwen does it at the shore closer to the grove; she just doesn’t typically venture this far.”

“You mentioned that,” Geraint said carefully, not wishing to seem too interested in Eilwen; he still felt rather overwhelmed at the memory of their meeting. “She’s…erhm…I’ve never…I, uh…”

“Yes,” Angharad snorted. “She does have that effect on men.” She bit off an end of twine, her eyes twinkling at him, hands flying deftly as she sorted the grass. “You must understand: priestesses oversee all the rites of love and marriage and fertility. They perform them on behalf of any woman who visits, and have to listen to them go on and on about their romances and lovers’ quarrels and married lives, all while not being allowed to experience any of it themselves. So you can see how it might drive them all a bit wild.”

Geraint wondered, rather dazedly, if any man on the mainland really understood what went on on this island, and scratched his head. “That’s rather ironic, isn’t it? Why aren’t they allowed?”

She shrugged. “Something about how delaying passion increases devotion, supposedly. They barely even see a male creature during their service - which ends when they come of age and marry. I can’t tell you whether it all works, though. Plenty of girls don’t make it past their initiate year, and get quietly released. It’s no shame, just a weeding out of the weak-willed. But Eilwen is in line for High Priestess, by tradition, so she has less freedom - it’s a lifetime responsibility. But the restrictions don’t last that long. Next year she’ll be ordained in my aunt’s place, and allowed to pursue marriage...though I don’t expect her to be in a hurry to settle on one man,” she added drily.

“Won’t _she_ have to marry an enchanter?” heasked, thoughtlessly, and her hands stilled in the grass for a moment, before tearing off a section of twine with a force that whitened the fingertip it was wound around.

“No,” she said shortly. “She is free to wed whomever she pleases, as long as I stay alive and provide an heir, preferably two, of...traditional lineage.”

He fell silent at this, angry at himself for bringing it up, though questions ate at him like mosquitos. Angharad sorted and tied the grass with a vehemence unsuited to such a simple task, and when she spoke again her voice was thick and uneven. “She knew, you know. She knew what was happening between us even before I did.”

“I thought you didn’t tell anyone about me.”

“I didn’t. She guessed. So did Arianrhod.” A sound that might have been a bitter laugh escaped her. “A lifetime in the grove and they can _smell_ it on you — and they both know me too well, in any case. Don’t worry,” she added, seeing his expression, “Arianrhod’s as sympathetic as Eilwen. She knows what it is to love, as my mother does not.”

He thought about what she had told him, his mind already pulling it into the frame of a story. “I am sorry for what the queen has had to endure.”

Angharad’s mouth tightened and her eyes grew hard as she wrapped her grass bundles into the cloth. “So am I. But it does not reconcile me to the grief she is forcing upon me. Tragedy should...make you want to _save_ those you claim to love from the same troubles.”

“I think,” he said gently, “that that is what she believes she is doing.”

Her gaze strayed to him, resistant, resentful. He held up his hands and added, “I do not say I think she is right. Only that pain can twist the mind, until all manner of means seem justified to avoid it.”

Her stiff shoulders lowered slowly and she looked away, over the water. “Maybe. You told me once that you had seen people believe stories that destroyed them. Perhaps they can’t help it. Perhaps they can’t hear any other, no matter how plainly it’s put to them.” She sighed. “And nothing is plain, right now.”

The linen strip around her hand had slipped and soiled during the climb; she picked at its edges and unwound it absently. Geraint interrupted, and finished the job for her, wincing at the sight of the dark red line that crossed her palm. “And you did this on a whim?”

She clenched her fingers over the wound. “I didn’t go in planning to do it. But I’m not sorry. And my daughters won’t be, either.”

“And if you have sons?”

She cast him an odd look. “That is unlikely.”

Geraint blinked. “Great Belin. I thought that was just legend. What do you do to them?”

“Set them adrift. No, nothing,” she amended, chuckling at his horrified face. “We just nearly always have girls.”

The horror faded, though he still stared at her incredulously. “You mean to tell me there’s never been a son born to anyone in your line?”

“Oh, no, there have,” Angharad said quickly, “just rarely to the crown heir, and it’s never the firstborn. It’s not unheard of otherwise — Arianrhod has two boys, in fact, and no daughters, which is also quite rare. But we’ve never been without a female heir to the throne, not since the founding of the kingdom. The priestesses say Rhiannon wills it so.” She shrugged. “It must be true, because it doesn’t seem very likely otherwise.”

“I should say not,” Geraint exclaimed, thinking of all the stories and histories that hinged on the all-encompassing urgency of producing male heirs. Kingdoms had risen and fallen upon the question, left apparently to chance despite desperate petitions, odd rituals and the most bizarre assortment of herbal cures creative and sadistic apothecaries could dream up. And here was Angharad coolly asserting assurance of a matrilineal line for the indefinite future. It almost made him indignant. “How many generations has it been?”

She grinned. “I’m the twelfth. Do you want the list?” She sat up straight as if reciting a lesson before an exacting tutor, and took a breath. “I am Angharad, daughter of Regat, daughter of Mererid, daughter of Morgana, daughter of Ceinwen, daughter of Glesni, daughter of Eleri, daughter of Rhiann, daughter of Eurolwyn, daughter of Creirwy, daughter of Branwen, daughter of Llyr. Poor Penarddun gets left out, of course, because she’s the daughter of Don, and that doesn’t fit the pattern.”

He sat back in amazement. “How long did it take you to learn all that?”

She waved this away. “How long does it take to learn your stories? I don’t remember _learning_ it at all. It’s sung to us in our cradles, and by the time we can speak we already know it...though I feel for those that come later. Imagine being the fiftieth. The poor child will be reciting for half an hour.” Her smile faded, and she glanced down at the land spread beneath them. “Assuming we’re still around by then.”

Geraint raised her wounded hand to his face and pressed his lips to the palm where the line marred it, and tried not to imagine a future where her daughters would recite a list of names that had no place for his. Angharad curled her fingers around his jaw and exhaled a long, shivery breath, leaning into him and laying her head on his shoulder. “I should go soon,” she murmured reluctantly. “I’m in charge of organizing a contingency to send to Abegwy. We’re moving the whole village out of the river valley in hopes of stopping the sickness.”

“That vision you had?” he asked, and she nodded. “What else did you see?”

“Just images, really,” she said hesitantly, “not much we could make sense of. There’s something trying to come through, but it’s dreadfully difficult to interpret. I wonder...” She sat up suddenly, and re-wrapped her hand in the linen strip. “Come, let’s get down; I want to show you something.”

She scrambled from the ledge so fast he nearly shouted in alarm, and backed down after her in anxious haste, dropping to the ground and turning to see her scratching in the sand with a bit of driftwood. When he approached he saw that she had drawn a curious symbol; three spirals, connected to surround an interior three-cornered shape, like a twisted, softly-curved triangle.

“Have you seen this anywhere in all your wanderings?” she asked him. Geraint shook his head thoughtfully.

“Not to my memory. Many spirals, of course - popular decorations on barrows and doorways and places significant to the Fair Folk. But never this particular arrangement. Why?”

“I have seen it twice now,” Angharad answered, with a puzzled frown, as she studied it. “In a dream and in the scry. I do not know what it means. It is nowhere in our books, or our records that we’ve been able to find. Nothing to do but keep looking, I suppose, or hope it turns up again with a little more explanation next time.”

She whistled for Tan, and Geraint helped her stack and tie the wood he had gathered, accepted the bundle of provisions she brought him, and stood with her as she hesitated, asking him questions whose answers she knew, obviously unwilling to leave, drawing out the moment. She turned to him at last, when they could not even pretend there was more to say, and mutely slid into his arms. 

“I shall tell you a story next time,” he whispered against her hair, “one just for us, and in it we shall sail off to the end of the world — a new place, a starting over, where we are free to be whomever we wish.”

Her arms tightened around him. “Please do that,” she sighed, warm breath feathering his neck. “Don’t feel you have to end it there, either. Tell me all of it...as long as it goes on.”

She kissed him one last time, and glanced again toward his boat, and a shadow of fear cross her face. “I’m not going to leave,” he told her quietly. “Not until the day you order me to go.”

He waited for her to say she never would.

She looked at him as upon a future she could not bear to contemplate, and did not say it.


	19. Chapter 19

_The trouble with a woman’s heart is that_

_it knows nothing of boundary._

~Segovia Amil

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

_The stones towered tall, dark giants rising from mist and shadow. They seemed to loom inward toward the space they encircled, as though to intimidate anyone foolish enough to enter it. She stood in the center of the ring, turning slowly to regard each one in turn, feeling an odd inclination to bow to them. Whispers teased at the edges of her hearing, as though the moment her back was turned, the ancient sentinels discussed her presence with disapproval._

I didn’t come to take anything _. She tried to say it, but no words came out. Only an empty breath, but the whispering ceased, replaced by foreboding silence. The mist swirled and quavered as though shaken by a draught, but there was no wind._

 _She tried to speak again._ I’ve brought something instead.

_A surge of magic condensed from the air, from the ground; it pushed her backwards and then forwards and she stumbled and fell, cutting her hands upon the rough stone beneath her. The same power buoyed her back up, enveloped her, shrank itself small and potent, a pulsing light that came to rest on her own breast. It was searingly hot; she grabbed it away from her skin and realized she held her own pendant. The gem glowed like captured fire, azure and emerald and gold and sunset colors she had no name for. She pulled the chain from her neck and held it up like an offering in her scraped and bloodied fist._

_The whispering began again and rose to a murmur and then a roar, full of sounds that made no sense, voices speaking in a cacophony of unintelligible words. A sudden gale tore at her, swinging the pendant wildly in her grasp; she clutched it and curled herself protectively away, crouching. Below her the ground glowed as though on fire; a path of golden light spiraled out from her feet, out and out; it reached the boundary of the stone ring and then broke beyond it, and the towering monoliths roared and crumbled, flinging shards and splinters of stone around her in a dusty grey storm. Beyond them, shimmering through the mist, she saw light, and sea, and sands silver-white stretching up to green hills under a full moon, felt a longing so powerful that her heart leapt and her body tensed to run toward it. But the ground shifted beneath her feet, groaning and quaking, and threw her down amongst the rubble of the stones, and the sea rose up in mountainous waves and rushed toward her, the roar of the water drowning out her scream..._

“Milady!”

Angharad opened her eyes with a jolt, cold with dread. She found herself staring into Elen’s face, pale in the light of a single candle. Elen had her by the arms, gripped as though in the midst of tussling with her; her eyes were wide and frightened.

 _“Llyr,”_ the girl gasped, “I thought you’d never wake up.”

“A dream.” Angharad clutched at her, panting, trying to shake off the fear that gripped her. She shivered, realized she was sweating. “How did you...”

“You were shouting. Strange words I couldn’t understand. And then you shrieked to wake the dead. If no one else heard it I’ll be skinned...we’ll have guards as guests any minute, I daresay. What was it?”

Angharad raised a hand to her pendant; the gem burned scalding hot beneath her fingers and she hissed and let go, shaking the pain away, pulled the chain off to look at it. The facets caught the candlelight and reflected them dimly, tiny sparks trapped within the depths. “It’s happened again,” she whispered. “It’s...wait. I’ve got to write it down.” She turned to her side table, laid down the necklace with trembling hands, and lit the Pelydryn as Elen scampered away and returned with parchment and an inkwell.

“You’re shaky,” Elen fussed, propping cushions behind her back as she sat up to the table. “Should I call for someone?”

“No,” said Angharad, dipping the quill and writing feverishly. “I’m all right. Or will be.” She shut her eyes and tried to recall it; the towering stones, the spiraling light, the green land under the moon. The feather scratched gratingly at the parchment; ink blobbed and dripped, small inconveniences that somehow seemed enormous; she grit her teeth. “Penknife, Elen.”

“Drink this first.” Elen handed her a cup; Angharad, without looking, gulped at it, coughed and made a face.

“Ugh. Just water next time.”

“Fine. But you needed something to stop that shaking.” Elen took a quick swig of her own from the wine jug she held, corked it and set it back in its cabinet. She returned with the knife and sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh, jumping back up at a sudden knock at the door. “Llyr! I knew it.”

“Don’t let them in. I won’t be interrupted,” Angharad ordered, continuing to scrawl. She vaguely heard Elen admonishing someone at the door. Yes, her highness was safe. Just a nightmare. No need to raise an alarm.

 _I wonder,_ she thought, and tapped the quill on her chin.

Elen returned to her bedside and sank to the edge again, waiting silently until she saw her lady pause in her writing. “All right? Can you tell me now?”

“You can read it.” Angharad pushed the parchment toward her.

The girl looked it over, pursing her lips. “Belin. Earthquakes and floods and magic. You can’t get away from calamity even in your sleep. It’s no wonder, with the way you’ve been carrying on. I wish you’d rest more. But no, there you go.” For Angharad had pushed her bedclothes back and stood, sliding on her slippers. “It’s barely sunrise,” Elen protested. “You ought to go back to bed.”

“I couldn’t, now, if I tried.” Angharad pulled off her nightshift hurriedly. “I need to go to Arianrhod while it’s fresh in my mind.”

“Best take this with you.” Elen picked up her pendant from the table and held it out; Angharad touched the glimmering gem and held her breath, but it was cool now, familiar, and she wondered if she’d only imagined the burning against her palm. Elen helped her dress with obvious reluctance, and glanced at the parchment once more before handing it to her. “You aren’t going to tell the queen?”

“No,” Angharad stuffed the scrawlings into a satchel and shuddered at the thought of bringing up the grim circle of stones to her mother. “Not this one.”

The light of the Pelydryn flowed like water over the stone walls as she strode down the hallway, pushing shadows away from its edges, rippling away from the darkness that chased at her heels, reminding her vividly of the spiral of light in her dream. _What does it mean?_

Sunrise at the grove was a beautiful thing, glimmering with the first pale-gold rays that filtered through the willows and played across the turf in dappled pools of light, while white-robed girls sang the morning rites around the fragrant altar as they placed the day’s supply of wood and sweetgrass around its base. Angharad paused near it, but she saw nothing of Eilwen. Even priestesses rested occasionally; in ordinary times the acolytes did as well, the fire left to die and be rekindled the next morning. She inhaled the cloying sweetness of the smoldering grass, coughed, and wondered if even the goddess got tired of breathing incense eventually.

Arianrhod was in her garden, puttering among the herbs; she straightened at Angharad’s approach, her face breaking into a somewhat weary smile. There had been several early morning gatherings with her nieces, the three of them working at various warding spells in preparation for Achren’s arrival - a thing still cloaked in uncertainty, in time and manner - and both the work and its subversive secrecy, Angharad knew, were draining for one as even-tempered and peace-loving as her aunt. Eilwen had told her that Arianrhod was, of late, frequently up nearly all night meditating before the altar fire, trying to divine anything its colors andshapes might tell her, anxious lest an important message be missed by an inexperienced or inattentive acolyte.

Angharad embraced her warmly, noting the new silver strands glittering in the dark braids that crowned her aunt’s graceful head. “You’re out early, dear heart,” Arianrhod murmured, “what’s the reason?”

“Another dream this morning,” Angharad answered; Arianrhod stiffened in expectation, and the princess pulled her to a stone bench nearby and sat, pulling the parchment from her pack. “Nothing more on that dratted symbol, but still significant, I’m sure. I followed my orders,” she added, with a touch of humor, “and wrote down everything I could remember.”

Arianrhod took the parchment and read silently and soberly to the end. “Good Llyr. It _is_ Pentre Gwyllion; it must be. And your gem—,”

“It was hot again when I awoke; blazing. I couldn’t touch it.”

“Rhiannon,” Arianrhod breathed forebodingly. “If only Regat...” She fell silent, brooding, staring at the gem dangling beneath her niece’s throat. “This jewel, and Pentre Gwyllion, somehow connected. What it has to do with our current situation...” she shook her head. “That, I cannot understand. Our petitions go unanswered.”

“Maybe this _is_ the answer.”

“Perhaps. But so vague.” Arianrhod shook her head, glancing over the writing again. “A warning, or a prophecy, or both? I do not know whether it is cause for hope or dread.”

“Do you see nothing in your divinations?”

“I see change…even great change, possibly. But it has no form. It is still unknown.”

Angharad stood from the bench and paced the garden path broodingly, gathering her courage. “I think…I think I must go to Pentre Gwyllion.”

Arianrhod looked at her with alarm. “You cannot. Regat will never allow it, and it would be impossible to go without her knowledge.”

“I could invent some other reason for being gone for a few days.”

“It’s too near your wedding. She won’t agree to your going anywhere at all longer than a day’s journey.”

Angharad winced at the mention. “But—,”

“Even if she did agree, you cannot breach Pentre Gwyllion,” Arianrhod decreed. “We cannot afford to lose _you_ to Fair Folk justice.”

“Then what are we to do with this? They gave us the gem. They guard the stones. They are the only ones who can, perhaps, explain what it is we need to know,” Angharad pleaded. “We cannot just wait forever for dreams and visions that only bring more questions.” She paced along the shell-lined path, feathery herbs brushing at her skirts, butterflies fluttering up at the disturbance. “There were two more quakes this week, and word of more red tide from the south. Achren will be here any day and who knows what will happen then. I am wearied to death with waiting, doing nothing but defensive spellwork that accomplishes so little.” She plucked a sprig of mint from along the path and crushed it in her fingers, breathed in the sharp scent and forced herself to think. “What…what are the terms of the treaty, exactly? Do we have it in writing at all?”

“We do now, I think,” Arianrhod answered carefully. “It was made before we had any written records, and the details had been lost through the years. But of course, the Folk forget nothing, and two hundred years is as a handful of days to them. In their eyes, it was a simple matter. After my father’s trial, Mother insisted that they clarify the terms, and it was turned over to the scribes.”

“Then it should be in the records. That is where to begin.” Angharad straightened up decidedly. “There must be a way around it. It’s ridiculous to be allied with a people and then have rules that prevent your contacting them. But it’s rather like the Folk to play such a trick, if what’s said of them is true.” She tugged thoughtfully at her pendant, troubled. “Eilwen thinks perhaps we should hide the jewel when Achren gets here.”

Arianrhod raised her eyebrows. “Eilwen is more shrewd than it often suits her to appear. Most of our implements are beyond Achren’s ability to use, but that gem is an unknown. We know only, now, that it has power - nothing of its nature. It may well be that she could use it in some way; certainly she would covet it. But hiding it anywhere in the castle where she might be drawn to it won’t do. Where—,”

“I know somewhere,” Angharad whispered.

Birds twittered into the silence as Arianrhod studied her seriously. Finally she spoke. “You trust him that much?”

The princess breathed into the mint again, threw up her chin and looked her aunt fearlessly in the face. “I do. So would you, if you knew him.”

“As I wish I could.” Arianrhod smiled wistfully. “Anyone who has won your heart so completely cannot be other than remarkable.” Her smile faltered. “Are you prepared for what you must do at summer’s end?”

The familiar chill swept over her and Angharad shut her eyes as she swayed on her feet. “No. But it doesn’t matter, does it? We must all face the inevitable someday, whether prepared or not.” She opened her eyes again, dropped the mint leaves and crushed them underfoot, filling the air with the scent. “I never thought I’d have to die more than once,” she said bitterly.

“You will not.” Arianrhod stood and crossed to her, taking her by the shoulders and looking her in the eye. “You are a Daughter of Llyr, and your mothers were queens every one. You will survive this and more. And you will find a way to keep your heart whole. That, I need no divination to see.” She kissed her on the brow, breathed in the scent of her skin. “You are so full of your joy in him that it shines on you like the glow in the summer sea, even when you are here, away from him. Take your strength from it. Let it carry you through the darkness.”

“Is that what you did,” Angharad asked slowly, “with Llewelyn?” Arianrhod’s grey-blue gaze lost a hint of its glow at the mention of her late consort, and sadness drooped her graceful shoulders.

“My Llewelyn,” she sighed, “indeed. I did, and do. I weep for him still, some nights, alone; but I see him in my sons, hear his voice when they speak, and my memory of him is all joy. Pity your mother, Angharad, for she has not even the memory of love to carry her.”

Angharad nodded absently, and submitted to another kiss on the brow. “I’d better get back and look up the records.”

“Let me know what you find,” Arianrhod answered, as she turned to leave the garden. “I do agree we must pursue the matter somehow.”

Angharad had visited the records vault - the dark, smoky undercroft lined in chests and shelves stacked in parchments and books containing every written law and history of the kingdom - enough times to know the futility of finding any specific document without the aid of the stewards who kept a mental map of the apparent disorder. Regat had once remarked, with humor, that it was the office’s way of making itself indispensable. It should be a simple thing to ask any of them for the item she wanted, of course, but she mulled it over anxiously on her way there. Suppose word got back to the queen.

By the time she had descended into the lower level and entered the dim room she had a plan she hoped would deter suspicion, and requested from the scrivener on duty every treaty that had been recorded within the past thirty years. As there had been so few new alliances and no major conflicts with foreign powers at all in that time, there shouldn’t be much to search through - and indeed, there wasn’t; the dusty little man rummaged among the shelves, passed her three parchment scrolls without asking any impertinent questions, and bowed her out of the room.

Elen, sewing before the hearth, looked up in surprise when Angharad returned to her chamber. “Back already?”

“For now.” Angharad tossed her armload onto her bed and took up the first scroll.

“Did you find any answers?” Elen rose and looked over the jumble of parchment. “What’s all this?”

“Treaties. I’m trying to find—oh! Here it is. _Regarding Relations between the Royal House of Llyr and the Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg._ Oh, bother; it’s long.”

She sat down, scanning the contents, Elen perusing over her shoulder and observing,“Bit wordy. Seems like you could say as much in half the space if you tried.”

“They’re all like this,” Angharad muttered, frowning. “When I’m queen I shall make the scribes write everything in sensible language. Look here: ‘inasmuch as they hath bestowed their beneficent, inestimable and invaluable assistance’ - lays it on thick, doesn’t it; I wonder if that was the Folk’s assessment or ours - ‘in the protection, during the blasphemous desecration committed by the accursed sons of Llyr’ - well, that’s lovely - ‘upon said hallowed ground, of the third of the _Dagrau Rhiannon’_ \- what on earth is that? - ‘we therefore declare that the aforementioned territory shall be set aside in perpetuity’..mmhmm… ‘bordered by the sentinels of _Pentre Gwyllion’_ …hmm…mph.” She fell silent, reading to the end, then, in surprise, read it again. “Elen. There’s nothing in here about the forbidden quarter. Only Pentre Gwyllion itself.”

Elen had resumed her seat and was sewing placidly on. She glanced up, looking bemused. “Why would the rest be forbidden if it’s not part of the terms? Seems like a lot of wasted space we could be using.”

“I suppose…it could have been to keep anyone from wandering into the ring by ignorance,” Angharad mused. “Better to discourage people from going anywhere near it, and let legend do the rest. This is what comes of depending on oral agreements and not having it written down for so long. Everyone _thought_ they knew the terms.” She tapped the parchment against her chin. “It makes it a bit more accessible, at least.”

Elen fumbled, poked her finger with the needle and shook it, staring at her wide-eyed. “You’re not thinking of _going_ there!”

Angharad sighed. “I don’t know. We need to talk to the Fair Folk, I think, about this gem they gave Mother, and the only way Arianrhod knows to summon them is Pentre Gwyllion. But it’s complicated.” She rubbed her temples, impatient and frustrated. Today, miraculously, she had no pressing duties, and no intention of spending such a boon poring over a moldy old document in her chamber. Making up her mind, she rolled the scroll up and stood. “I’m going out. If Mother sends for me, tell her I’ll be back in time for the rituals tonight.”

Elen’s expression took on a knowing air of disapproval. “No need to say where you’re off to. Need a lot of extra wood lately, don’t we? That altar must be a right bonfire, if the sea is as diligent as you’ve been all this week past. I wonder what the urgency is.”

“You needn’t torment yourself with wondering,” Angharad retorted, flushing, “about what you know quite well.”

“You don’t have a court session?”

“That’s tomorrow; you know that.”

“Hmph. I daresay you’re out of form. Sparring practice?”

“No.”

“Heard back about the evacuation at Abegwy yet? Suppose word comes today.”

“The contingency left three days ago; they can only have gotten started with the proceedings yet, much less come back to report to me. Good Llyr, Elen,” Angharad snapped, exasperated, “are you my lady-in-waiting or my advisor?”

“You seem to need both, these days,” Elen said flatly. “I just want you to be well, you know, and happy. You’re wearing yourself out, and binding yourself heart and soul to something you know can’t last.” 

“That may be,” Angharad admitted. She chewed her lip, and looked stormily out her window. “But I’m not allowed happiness forever. So I’ll have what I can of it now.”

Elen sighed. “What shall I say if the queen asks where you went?”

“Tell her I’m meditating and forbade anyone to interrupt. I’ll be sure to do a little, so it won’t be a lie.”

“No doubt you’ve got plenty out there to _meditate_ on,” Elen snorted, and indicated the scroll with a nod. “I thought you had to think about all _this_. Seemed rather urgent a moment ago.”

“I’m taking it with me so I can think on the way.”

“Yes, I’m certain you’ll give it your undivided attention.” Elen rolled her eyes. “Mind you don’t lose it out there. Imagine explaining _that_ to Caradoc.”

Angharad shouldered her satchel again and hesitated. “Do you know where my old pendant is, the plain one I wore before Mother had this one made?”

“Bottom of your wardrobe, boxed away for your firstborn; why?”

“Find it for me, will you? Today, if you can.” She huffed at Elen’s alarmed look. “Oh, Belin, I’d hardly need it for _that_ yet, would I? I’ll explain later. I’m off. Don’t look at me like that. We don’t have much time to ourselves left, and I promised him.”

“Moon’s waxing,” Elen said ominously.

“I’m well aware, thank you.”

Grey eyes softened at last. “Be careful,” Elen murmured, helping her into a cloak and tugging it into place. “Oh! Wait, you.” Snatching a comb and brush from the side table, she brandished them, her eyes glinting, and shoved them into the satchel, with an expression that silently communicated volumes. A reluctant half-smile tugged the corner of her mouth up. Angharad, seeing it, pulled her in to kiss both her cheeks affectionately and left the room, mollified. On Elen, any smile at all was a minor victory when Geraint was the topic of discussion, acknowledged or otherwise.

It had been many days since her dream among the trees. She had made a few attempts to recapture it, on Eilwen’s advice, to no avail; she had not been able to fall asleep in the woods again on the occasions she could get away. Possibly there could have been more such occasions, once new moon was over and the cleansing ritual baths had been completed, had she not spent every spare hour at her disposal with Geraint. Her conscience pricked at her over this, but its voice was weak and faint, bleating somewhere beyond the driving song of desire. In her rational moments she worried over it; told herself she could resist the siren call of the cove if she would just exercise a little self-discipline where he was concerned. But her rational moments seemed fewer and fewer, and she had gone to him repeatedly, stealing hours from early morning or late evening on days when her duties did not permit more sensibly-timed visits; more than once she had gone on foot again, through the hidden gate, to avoid the questions that might result from ordering her horse saddled at such odd hours. No wonder Elen was chronically cross - besides all her worries over Angharad’s well-being, the boredom alone at having her closest companion so often absent was no doubt oppressive. _I’ll make it up to her,_ Angharad thought. _Later, when..._

But she would not think of later, would not cast her mind beyond the end of this desperate, gold-fired summer. She shook her head, and shut her thoughts to all but the next few hours.

Tan, left to her own lead, made her way to the cove now out of habit, and as soon as she was out of sight of the castle gates Angharad tied the reins to the saddle and pulled out the scroll again, unrolling it to peruse it once more. She read it over twice to make sure; the document specified only that the citizenry of Llyr were barred from entering the stone ring itself - for reasons that were left annoyingly unclear. Someone might have thought to have the Folk clarify that, along with certain bits of related history, while they had them handy. But then, the Gwyllion were an intimidating lot by all accounts, and the whole place must have been in an uproar over the banishment of the queen’s consort… _my grandfather_ , she thought deliberately, painfully. She did not know his name. Even Arianrhod, who had loved him, hadn’t spoken it. _Llyr. Forgive us. It should not be so…that our fathers might as well be nameless. Forgotten._

_As the father of my own daughters will be…_

Because it wouldn’t matter, would it. Unless…

_The father of…_

She caught her breath, arrested her thoughts before they could travel further. Her heart thumped wildly. Mutinous things stirred at the bottom of her mind; too nascent and shameless to be called thoughts; they were whispers, unspeakable, unthinkable. _Stop this. S_ he had already pushed the boundaries of her conventions to their limit; she could not reduce them to utter ruin, annihilate them completely. There was no use even entertaining the idea of things that could never be.

But voices rose unbidden to her mind.

_Are you prepared for what you must do at summer’s end?_

_I see him in my sons; hear his voice when they speak._

_Pity your mother, Angharad, for she has not even the memory of love to carry her._

A sob burst, like an escaped prisoner, from her throat. _What if memory is not enough?_

_Binding yourself heart and soul to something you know can’t last._

_Boxed away for your firstborn, why?_

_Moon’s waxing._

Her hands trembled as she rolled up the parchment.


	20. Chapter 20

_She’s mad_

_but she’s magic_

_there’s no lie_

_in her fire._

~Charles Bukowski

* * *

Chapter Twenty

Angharad was waiting at the cove when Geraint returned from his morning trek to check his snares and fishing lines. His heart rose at sight of her; then he paused, slightly perplexed. Instead of greeting him in her customary way - or ways, rather, for she had turned out to be creative and thorough in her demonstrations - she only glanced up at him with an inscrutable half-smile, waved, and remained where she was, sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the blanket she had spread upon the green grass near the garden. She turned her attention immediately back upon the object in her lap, and he hurried about setting his snared game in the weir he had built in the brook, there to stay cold until he could attend to it later.

When he drew near he saw that she had a length of parchment spread across her knees, her head bent over it studiously. He crouched beside her, slid an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“It’s all right.” She looked up, kissed him in swift, distracted welcome, and added, with a certain note of amusement, “I’ve just been keeping a promise. Meditating on this.” She indicated the document in her lap.

“What is it?” He glanced over the parchment, scrawled thick with lines of ink.

“At the moment,” she sighed, “a source of frustration. It’s the treaty that was made ages ago with the Fair Folk, and then recorded in writing after my grandfather’s banishment. I’ve been looking it over all morning, trying to decide if it says what I think it says. I’m not sure I trust it.”

“What’s not to trust?”

Angharad made a vague, impatient gesture into the air. “For ages it’s been our understanding that the entire northeastern quarter of the island was forbidden to human habitation, set aside for the Folk. But I can’t find it anywhere in here, and now I’m wondering why it was ever tacked on in legend. According to this, it’s only the stone ring itself that we’re barred from.” She pushed the parchment toward him abruptly. “Here, you look. Tell me what I’m missing. I’ve looked at it so long I feel as though I’m going blind.”

Geraint took it and scanned the lines; tightly-spaced script like many-legged insects crawling across the page, the work of a meticulous and, he decided, rather uptight individual. The event may have been a traumatic one, but the scribe who had recorded this treaty had betrayed no emotion in any stroke or dash of his—or her, he amended, remembering where he was—work. There could be no doubt of its thoroughness or accuracy.

“No,” he said, “you’re right. It’s only Pentre Gwyllion mentioned here. What’re the _Dagrau Rhiannon?_ ”

“Another frustration,” she grunted. “‘Tears of Rhiannon’, in translation. Something the gwyllion helped protect, apparently, but I’ve never heard of them. Or it. A treasure of some kind, I suppose. It seems to have been the cause of this whole thing, and now we’re still held to the terms even though it’s lost or forgotten, for all I know. A nice bit of irony, that.”

Geraint sucked his teeth, contemplating. It _was_ a nice bit of irony, instinct told him; there was a story in it, somewhere, and it plucked at his mind with delicate fingers, a puzzle to piece together. “Didn’t your grandfather travel there to find a source of power?”

“He did,” she conceded. “It has occurred to me that this—whatever it is—is what he sought. And if it is, I wish I knew where he’d heard of it. There’s nothing of the name in any legends that I know.”

Curiosity flickered within him, a quickening, like the rustle in a clump of grass that draws the hunter’s eye. He read over the lines again, sinking into them, their mystery a twinkling path that pulled at him seductively. “Did you notice this? The wording specifies that the ring is forbidden to the people of Llyr. It says nothing about anyone else.”

Angharad blinked, looking rather owlish in her surprise, and took the parchment back from him. “How did I not….” She read silently for a moment, and he tried not to be distracted by how charming she was, winding a long red-gold strand of hair around her finger, one puzzled dimple creasing the corner of her mouth. “How odd. Not that it makes a difference, really; if _we_ don’t have a reason to go I’d hardly think anyone else would either. But I suppose if it’s taken literally…”

“The Folk take everything literally,” Geraint remarked. “It’s one of their most charming and irritating qualities.”

“And you know this from experience?” Angharad returned, raising an eyebrow.

Geraint grinned. “Stories, my love, always stories. You could fill volumes with tales of the Folk, and their pattern is as clear as these lines.” He tapped the parchment. “They will exploit every unspoken condition, dodge the spirit of an agreement while fulfilling it to the letter, and turn any arrangement to their advantage with indisputable logic. It’s why it’s so perilous to deal with them, if you do it with any thought of deceit. If these are the terms they agreed to, they will abide by them, but it doesn’t make them less dangerous.” He studied her face, a trace of anxiety pulling at him. “What are you thinking of doing?”

Angharad hesitated. “I don’t know, exactly. But somehow, I’ve got to communicate with them. Something to do with this.” She gestured to the pendant dangling below her throat. “My jewel has been behaving strangely, and this morning it was in my dream.”

“A new one?”

“Mmm.” She related it to him, in vivid detail, and he stared at the parchment to hide his alarm at the calamity it seemed to foreshadow. “So you see,” she concluded, “this gem is certainly magic, but it’s never been active before, and that it should become so now, with everything else that’s happening…perhaps it’s coincidence, or perhaps not. But the Folk might be able to tell us, as they gave it to Mother, and Pentre Gwyllion is the only way of contacting them that we know. Actually…” She reached behind her neck to fumble with her silver chain, and to his surprise, removed it. “Speaking of this. I want you to keep it here, safe, for me.”

The silver crescent dangled in the air from the chain, the gem throwing slivered fragments of rainbow light upon the blanket. Geraint looked at it with some disquiet. “Keep it? Why? Don’t you always wear it - as a symbol of your identity?”

“Yes,” Angharad said soberly, “but I have another. This one was given me at my ascendance ceremony, but before that I had a plain one with no gem. I shall go back to wearing it for a time.” She looked troubled. “Achren will be here any day, and it seems prudent to keep it hidden from her, as far away as we can - at least until we know something of its nature, and whether she could even use it. Eilwen and Arianrhod are in agreement and…well, I thought of you.”

He took it gingerly. The metal was still warm from her skin. “I can hide it somewhere. What should I do if it…um…behaves strangely?”

She bit her lip. “I hope it won’t, for you. I’ve worn it so long I suspect it’s connected to me, and should stay quiet when separated. But keep your eye on it, and let me know if anything strange happens.”

“It ought to be protected somehow,” he pointed out, and she rummaged in the nearby saddlebag and produced a scrap of linen. Geraint wrapped the pendant in it, strode to his hut, and after a moment’s thought, tucked the small parcel over the lintel of the door. Hidden by the shadows between stones, it was quite invisible from any vantage point. He stared at the space, turning things over; the puzzle still nudged him, prickling at the corners of his mind.

Angharad was pulling foodstuffs out of her saddlebags when he returned; bread and cheese and a flagon of wine, setting them aside. She nodded approval over his stated hiding place; he stared, entranced, at the expanse of pale skin left strangely bare without the silver moon that had always winked there every moment since he had first seen her; its absence struck him with an odd sense of intimacy, somehow more vulnerable than the numerous times he had witnessed her wearing it and nothing else. He felt that she had removed a piece of herself, but he swallowed his unease, and said nothing of it. “Won’t your mother notice it’s missing?”

“No doubt she will. I shall tell her the truth - as much of it as she needs to know,” she declared, and began to roll the parchment back up.

The sound of it took him instantly back; strange how he could be transported so suddenly and completely away from his current surroundings. The sea, the sunlight, and the blanket spread upon emerald turf melted away for that instant; instead he saw a worn wooden table beneath the slanting beam of light from a window, heard a pen scratching staccato rhythms into the stillness. It was a fleeting thing, all the more intense for its brevity; it faded at once back into memory, leaving him with a tingling bittersweetness at his core.

Angharad seemed mildly surprised when he took the scroll from her again, and chuckled to see him bring it near his face and sniff appreciatively. “Smells like my childhood,” he explained, with a grin. “The hours I spent by my father’s side, learning to write.”

She looked wistful, uncertain. “Do you miss him?”

“Always,” Geraint sighed. He leaned back on the blanket, settling his head comfortably in her lap. “He did not have the strength to join me in play, like some of the other fathers I knew. His illness kept him from it, and I often resented it. But now, when I think of those hours sitting with him, learning my letters while he read aloud from whatever he was working on…or told stories, and sang the old songs of Gellau…I wish I had stayed longer. Listened better.”

“He sang?” A small, curious smile crooked her mouth.

“We all did, the whole family. I told you my mother was fond of claiming descent from Menwy.”

She laughed softly, fingers combing through the curls at his temple. “Why don’t you, now? I should think it would be a lucrative addition to your performances.”

“How do you know I don’t?” he teased, squinting up at the sunlight haloing her head. “You’ve only seen me perform for an audience of one. And you’ve only ever asked for stories, not songs.” He shut his eyes and continued quietly. “After Mother died, and then Gwynedd a few years later, Father hadn’t the heart for it any more.”

Her hand stilled in his hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have baited you over it.”

“It’s all right,” he said, thoughtfully. “It’s only that…singing brings them all back, for that moment, so I tend to do it only when I’m alone. Because sometimes it’s too much.” He opened one eye again to look at her ruefully. “One doesn’t want to break out weeping in the middle of a performance, you know. It’s embarrassing.”

She bent over until her tumbled hair curtained his face in red-gold light, and he inhaled the scent of it like a drug. “I should like to hear some of those songs some time,” she murmured, tracing his jawline with one fingertip, “and I won’t laugh if you cry.” 

He snatched at her hand and pressed the fingertips to his lips. “I’ll trade you, then, song for song. I’ve learnt tunes from every cantrev in Prydain, but nothing from Llyr. Surely you have your own.”

“We do.” Angharad straightened up, wearing her wry expression, stained by a faint flush of self-consciousness. “But I am not accustomed to singing for an audience.”

Geraint tugged at a lock of her hair playfully. “Fair’s fair.”

“Hmph,” she said, but without any real annoyance. That small smile was back, settling so alluringly in the corners of her lips that he had to force himself to stay still, and not pull her down and interrupt whatever else was about to break out of them. For she had taken a breath, and he held his own, as she began to sing.

She sang of small ships, resting at harbor, away from their untold adventures upon the rolling waves. He recognized the metaphor before the first verse was done: the ships were children, the song clearly a lullaby, full of gentle references to sleep, serenity, peace, and home. Her voice was clear, low, sweet and steady in pitch, and he closed his eyes, blissful, and tried to imagine her as a child…a goldenfire-headed child, being rocked and sung to sleep by…whom? Nothing she had told him of the queen lent itself to the scene forming in his mind. He realized, with an aching jolt, that Angharad was not the little girl in his mental image but the mother, bent singing over a brightly-curled head against her breast.

He pushed the vision away hurriedly, and tried to empty his mind of all but the sound of the song. But the siren sweetness of it was heartrending enough on its own, and by the time she had repeated the last slow lines he realized that if he opened his eyes the prickling ache behind them would almost certainly betray him. So he kept them shut, and measured his breaths slow, and wished both that she had never sung it and that she would sing it again, that she would never stop singing to him.

The song ended, and she was silent for some time, as though she knew he had no words and did not wish to make him search for them. He listened to her silence, backed by the quiet rush of the breakers on the beach, the rustle of the grasses in the ever-moving air, and wondered what she was thinking, and what she would say if he told her of the picture in his mind.

Finally he deemed it safe to speak, at least, pushing past the tightness in his throat. “Beautiful. I suppose that is sung over every Llyrian child in the cradle.”

Angharad stirred, the curling ends of her hair gliding like silk across his face and shoulders. “Yes. As I shall sing it over my own soon.”

His eyes flew open at this, despite his pride, to find her gazing at him steadily, her expression a mixture of burning intensity and desperate longing that quickened his pulse in an instant. No need to wonder; her thoughts could not be more plainly written if she had scrawled them on the parchment he had set down next to them. Gods! How had he not thought of this? It was madness — dangerous, beautiful madness, and could not be. But perhaps it was, already. It occurred to him that they had been extravagantly careless; he stared at her, and could say nothing. 

She waited until his silence spoke for him, and straightened up, turning her eyes away toward the water. “Your turn. Song for song. That was the bargain.”

The hurt note in her voice dug at him like claws. Geraint reached up to brush his hand against her cheek, and spoke shakily. “Give me time to think.”

“Don’t think too long,” she said - light words, with steel threaded through them. “We don’t have much time for it.”

“Angharad.” His voice still shook. “Do you tell me that you are—,”

“No,” she interrupted. “I would not have risked it without your agreement.” She glanced back at him, flushed and hesitant. “I only thought of it this morning, because…my own signs and cycles are no mystery to me. If the very possibility is unthinkable to you, then it would be best if I do not come at all for the next week. Not until the moon wanes once more.”

“A full week?” Geraint repeated, then felt foolish — like a petulant child deprived of some privilege. “I...is there no way to prevent...”

“None that are certain,” she said flatly.

“What about your duties?” he queried. It was one thing to defer passion; but not to see her at all was a terrible thought. “After all, you came often for a month before the storm, and we managed to stay chaste. I daresay I can control myself for a week.”

She barked a short laugh, dry and crisp. “At full moon? Perhaps you could, but I could not, nor would I desire to. Not anymore. I dare not trust myself within sight of you. No,” she went on, “I shall have to leave the driftwood to the acolytes for a bit, and stay at home, with only the thought of you to sustain me.” Bitterness twisted her mouth into a dark, sardonic mockery of her wry smile.

After a painful pause he sat up, twisting around to face her. She did not meet his eyes. “It isn’t that the idea is unthinkable to me,” he confessed hoarsely. “The very thought…I cannot…” he choked on the words; a new vision invaded his mind: a small mirror of Angharad, a child, proud, magnificent, crowned with her mother’s red-gold hair. His own blood, a princess of Llyr. Would there be anything of him in her - in her smile, her laugh, her eyes? He caught at his breath. “I would I could give you everything you want.”

The smooth lines of her throat jerked as Angharad swallowed. “No one can do that,” she said bitterly, “because you are everything I want, and I would you were mine, for all to know, without reservation or secrecy or deception. And it is the one thing I cannot have.” Her gaze turned to him again, jewel-sharp and aching and devastating. “But I could have something of you, to keep; one that would be ours alone, untouchable, no matter what may come after.”

“And leave me with what?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Only to watch from a distance as she grew up in a world I have no part in, never to know or be known?” Angharad winced. He saw it, but went on, angry at himself, at the life denied them. “It is difficult enough _now,_ with only you to yearn for, and no one yet come between us. Would you ask this much more of me?”

She stared at him as if shocked that he could be so obtuse. “I would. Because the alternative is that you will watch me bear another man’s child, and have nothing of me at all but whatever attention I can spare you once I am married.” Her voice broke and she turned away from him, curling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. “And even should I bring you into my own house, under pretense that will be perfectly obvious to everyone, that is no life for any man. You will grow to resent it, and me, and you will leave, sooner or later, and our time here will be no more than memory.”

Like all their choices, it was unbearable; Geraint pulled her into his arms and held her, in mute solidarity with the pain that shook her. “You see,” she whispered dully, “there is no happy ending for us. There are only endings…one with and one without the one thing that could last out of all this.”

That vision of her bent over a fiery-haired child pushed itself into his mind’s eye again, and his will began to crumble. “But would a child of ours be accepted in your house? I thought your law states that—,”

“No one would know,” she said tremulously. “I will be wed in little over a month, if Mother’s plans stand. Even if it happened now, it would be too soon for anyone to suspect the father was anyone but my husband. Healthy babes born a few weeks before their time are nothing new.”

Geraint grit his teeth at the words _my husband_. “Are you certain you could maintain such a secret? Your mother knows you come here often. If it were discovered before your wedding it could go very badly for me. And I find it hard to believe that the women who could sniff out my…erhm…involvement in your life, would not also sense something so pertinent to their expertise.”

Angharad stiffened a little and he loosed his arms; she sat up, looking at him with rather rueful respect. “I didn’t think of that.” Her brow furrowed. “I would never put you willingly in danger.”

He was surprised to find himself filled with a heavy sense of regret, a mourning for the dream-child in his vision. “I don’t…I don’t say this could never be,” he said carefully, “or that I do not desire it, even. Only that…we must be careful.”

“Careful,” she repeated slowly, picking up the scrolled parchment and returning it to the saddlebag. “All my life I have been careful. Dutiful and responsible and sensible. And discontented. Until you came.” She dropped the bag as though it were terribly heavy, clenched her fists, and turned back to him suddenly, with the flushed cheeks and blazing eyes that he had come to recognize as the harbingers of storm, that brought his own pulse to a pounding rhythm, his breath to an audible rush. She tackled him like a breaker, with a strength that still somehow surprised him, tumbling them both down onto the blanket beneath the open sky and pulling him into the warm circle of her arms. Her hands twisted into his shirt linen, slid beneath it; her breath was hot on his face. “I don’t want to be _careful_ anymore.”

Too preoccupied for speech for some time, he finally came up for air, and sighed plaintively against her lips, contemplating the near future. “A whole week?”

Angharad chuckled. “If _you_ insist. But today is ours.”

“And what are my orders, milady?” He had a few suggestions, of course, to which she responded with interest.

“How intriguing,” she murmured presently, “but you do still owe me a song.”

Geraint laughed. “And how am I to accomplish that, in this state?”

Turquoise eyes flashed with a sudden feral light. Abruptly she pushed him away and in one fluid motion rose to her feet, pulling him up with her; she turned, gripping his wrist, and he ran after her toward the beach, in bewildered anticipation.

When they reached the water’s edge she plowed straight into the surf, so fast that before he knew it she had led him waist-deep; once again the swells parted around them both in a seemingly-effortless flow, and he paused to watch the phenomenon with his former sense of disbelief. Angharad, drawn up short by his halt, whirled around to face him, and her radiance made him forget the water’s unnatural movement, forget everything but the sight of her. Did she really glow, or was it the sunlight, tossed from the fractured surface of the water to dance across her skin? —golden against the sky, ivory against the sea. He shivered, not from cold, and wondered if it mattered if the moon glowed of her own accord, or whether, as some of the druids debated, she merely threw back the light of her brother the sun. One dared not ask such questions of the gods. His mind swam, every sense overwhelmed, his pulse roaring in synchrony with the thunder of the surf.

Droplets shimmered up her arms like crystals as she reached for him, pulled him toward her, the water rose to his chest and shoulders until his feet left the sand and he gasped in sudden panic, clutching at her because there was nothing else. She held him, he realized, by more than her arms, though he had no words to describe the sensation of this fluid power around him; the sea itself buoyed him up, weightless. Angharad laughed at his surprise, and he stared at her in helpless wonder. Here, in her element, she was inferno and tempest, regal and wild and barely human; he thought vaguely that he might not survive whatever she had in mind, but if a man could choose the manner of his death, it would be as glorious an end as any the bards might dream of.

“Will you drown me?” he asked, only half in jest, as she wrapped him into her embrace. Her hair drifted around him, dark in the water, clinging like silken bonds.

“No,” she whispered, around the white crescent of her smile. “I’ll make you sing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angharad's song is, in my head, the real song Away from the Roll of the Sea by Alistair McGillivray - written within this century, but you'd never know it by the lyrics. It has all the marks of an old celtic folk song and I highly recommend looking up a recording of it on youtube; this cover by Kay Clarity has the type of voice and inflection I picture for Angharad: 
> 
> (copy and paste link) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1OibAwdj24
> 
> In my headcanon, Eilonwy still hums this tune but has no memory of the words or the origins.


	21. Chapter 21

_The old moon is tarnished_

_With smoke of the flood,_

_The dead leaves are varnished_

_With color like blood._

_A treacherous smiler_

_With teeth white as milk_

_A savage beguiler_

_In sheathings of silk._

~Elinor Morton Wylie

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One

The sky was gold and crimson in the west, a luminous mirror of her ardent spirit, when Angharad arrived in the grove that evening with her load of driftwood. She slid from Tan’s back to unload, humming to herself happily.

Eilwen, hurrying down from ministering at the altar, embraced her in the customary way and then pushed her back at arm’s length to study her. Her green eyes glinted knowingly. “Well, _you’re_ positively glowing. Must’ve been a good day.”

“The weather was lovely,” Angharad retorted, deliberately evasive, but unable to repress a smile, or the warmth that flooded her face. Eilwen chuckled.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it. Come, I’m done for the day and I’m starved. Anything in those saddlebags of yours besides sand and shells?”

“No, sorry. I’ve left everything at the cove.”

Eilwen was already peeking into the bag, and shut the flap with a disgruntled sigh. “You certainly have, haven’t you,” she muttered low, out of the hearing of the girls who were milling around, cooing over Tan and stroking her glossy sides. “I suppose his appetite _is_ quite equal to all you bring him,” she added, with a suggestive quirk of her eloquent brows.

“Oh, honestly,” Angharad grunted, and her sister laughed, tucked her arm into the crook of her elbow, and pulled her away, leaving Tan content under the adoring ministrations of the acolytes.Eilwen steered them both toward the storehouse that held the food offerings for use of the priestesses, disappeared inside, and came out laden with a basket full of bread, cheese, honey, strawberries, and mead.

“I’d kill for a lamb roast,” she grumbled. “Nobody’s brought meat in weeks.”

“Wrong time of year,” Angharad reminded her, amused. “Better for you anyway to avoid it, the healers say.”

“Half the healers are old crones with no appetites left of any kind,” Eilwen sniffed disdainfully, as they strolled across the lawn. “Ask them what they were eating when they were our age. You’ll never hear Branwen or the other midwives telling a young mother not to eat meat.”

“Different then, though, isn’t it? And she’s apt to tell them to have more fish than anything,” Angharad pointed out, snatching a strawberry. The sweet fruit crushed between her teeth and she realized with some surprise that she was ravenously hungry. “Llyr, I’m famished. You should have gotten more.”

Eilwen sank to a grassy embankment with a saucy grin. “Forgive me; I thought you’d had your fill already. Go ahead, have whatever you want. I can always go back.” She pulled the bread into sections and ate, studying her sister sidelong. “You’re a sight, by the way; looks like you’ve been through a tempest. I hope you’ve got nothing ceremonial coming up tonight. Your hair’s going to take hours.”

Angharad raised a hand ruefully to her head, crunching its salty locks in her grasp. “Just needs washing is all.”

Eilwen bent toward her and sniffed. “Oh! You went seabathing. It’s about time,” she snorted, her grin widening. “Did he enjoy it?”

“The weather was lovely,” repeated Angharad, around a mouthful of bread, and Eilwen laughed and threw another strawberry at her.

“You’re utterly maddening. The only person whose details I actually _want_ to hear and the only one who won’t give me any.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Perhaps I’ll just have to take a stroll over there sometime and see for myself _._ ” At her sister’s horrified expression she laughed again, and then fell silent, suddenly thoughtful. “For that matter, I hope you’re being careful to avoid witnesses. Aren’t there fisherfolk who use that stretch now and then?”

“Occasionally. But I keep an eye out.” Angharad frowned uncomfortably, realizing she had been quite a bit more impulsive than usual on this day, having come to take the lonely location a bit for granted. Still, in all likelihood… “Sorry to disappoint, but most of the time there’s nothing remarkable to observe. Geraint helps me gather wood, and keeps me company while I collect herbs and ormer, or we sit and talk. He tells me stories of his wanderings, and teaches me things.”

“What sort of things?”

“What he does to survive. How to craft and build, garden and forage, and store food…all sorts of things.”

Eilwen tossed her head, puckering her mouth in a sullen pout. “Oh, darling. That sounds dreadful.”

Angharad laughed. “Not at all. It’s fascinating; you’ve no idea. He knows so much, it makes me feel… stifled, somehow, despite all the skills we’re taught. There is so much done for us that we never even think about, and it’s…satisfying, somehow, to perform such practical tasks.”

Her sister raised an eyebrow, her saucy grin returning. “ _Satisfying,_ is it? So that’s what you’ve been doing so often, then? Oh, I’ve noticed how much wood you’ve brought in. You’ve been out almost every day or night, one way and another, since baths. Don’t tell me he’s only giving you lessons in knot-tying and porridge-cooking every time you manage to visit.”

Angharad opened her mouth to protest and shut it again, blushing, as memories flooded her with aching warmth. “No,” she admitted at last, with a little resigned sigh. “Lately the lessons have been of a more intimate nature, but we don’t usually conduct them anywhere they might be witnessed.” _Until today,_ she thought ruefully. Embarrassed at having given in even this much to her sister’s curiosity, she ignored Eilwen’s squeak of delight, pulling her satchel open and rummaging within. “I had another dream this morning,” she announced, without preliminaries. “I brought it to Arianrhod, but you weren’t around. See what you make of it.”

“Sorry I missed you.” Eilwen took the parchment Angharad handed her, “What did she—? Never mind, tell me once I’ve read it.” She scanned the scrawled lines soberly, rolled it up, looked at Angharad again. Her eyes flashed as she took in that which she had missed before. “Your pendant.”

“I left it with him.”

“Was it acting up again?”

“It was hot as fire when I woke up.”

“Are you sure he can keep it safe?”

“As sure as I am of anything.” Angharad shrugged.

Eilwen shook her head. “Not much, these days. But it’s much too potent to be anywhere in Achren’s vicinity, if this is any indication.” She waved the parchment. “What did Arianrhod say?”

“The same. We’re looking into the connection with Pentre Gwyllion. I found the treaty written down after our grandfather’s banishment, and studied it all morning. I need to discuss what I found with her, actually.”

Eilwen waved a hand toward the castle. “She’s not here. Mother called her up over an hour ago, so I daresay you’ll see her tonight. What did you find?”

“That there’s a lot we’ve been assuming. The forbidden quarter isn’t forbidden after all.”

“Not forbidden?” Eilwen coughed around her mouthful of bread and honey. “Are you sure?”

“I am. Geraint confirmed it, too. He also noticed that the ban on our entering the ring only applies to those of Llyr. Not foreigners.”

“You’re letting him read our legal documents?”

“He trained as a scrivener when he was young,” Angharad said, somewhat defensively.

Eilwen’s mouth twitched. “Oh, my, beauty and brains. Maybe you should send _him_ to Pentre Gwyllion and let him sort this out with the Fair Folk. Perhaps they’d be as charmed as you are.”

“Don’t be silly.” Angharad took the parchment back and stuffed it into her satchel, frowning at the thought. “I’d better get back. Sun’s almost set.”

“Twenty-first hour,” Eilwen mused, and yawned. “All that wood you’ve brought in will be handy come solstice. I won’t be sorry to see it pass. Sunrise is like a slap in the face when it comes so early.”

* * *

“ _There_ you are!”

Elen hurried to her the moment she entered the door of her chamber. Angharad regarded her in some surprise; her usually placid handmaiden was flushed and agitated.

“What is it?” The princess dropped her satchel onto the low couch before the fire and followed it, flopping into the cushions wearily. “I told you I’d be gone all day. You’ve practically worn a trail through the carpet, pacing.”

“The queen’s asked for you _twice_ this evening. I don’t know what’s happening but she was none too pleased the second time. You should have seen the poor boy shaking that brought the second summons. I _knew_ it’d be trouble for you to be gone so long.” Elen looked her over briskly and threw her hands up in despair. “And here you are, not fit to be seen by anyone. What did I give you a comb for if you’re just going to douse yourself in seawater? Blessed Rhiannon.” She made the divine sign, while Angharad tried, too late, to erase the dreamy smile that had crept to her face, despite her disquiet. “I don’t even _want_ to know what you were doing. It’ll take an hour to soak all that salt out, and you haven’t got one. Your mother wants you _now_.”

“Oh, stop fussing,” Angharad sighed, pulling her dusty shoes off. “She can wait a few more minutes.”

Elen looked shocked at such outspoken defiance and Angharad settled stubbornly into the couch, somewhat surprised at herself, and was tempted to laugh, that a few rebellious words should seem so dangerous when they were the least of her transgressions lately. After the light and heat of the midsummer day and the unfettered freedom of the last few hours, it felt intolerably dark and chill and joyless inside the castle. She sent a burst of mental energy toward the hearth and the flames in it roared. Elen snatched up her discarded shoes and replaced them with indoor slippers, glaring at her expectantly. “Don’t get comfortable. I’m not going to try to talk my way around another summons. You’ll be lucky if...” she stopped, staring at her mistress in consternation. “What’ve you done with your necklace?”

Angharad raised her hand automatically to her bare throat. “Oh. I’ve hidden it. Because of Achren coming. Did you find my old one?”

“So that’s it.” Elen turned toward her side-table and turned back, bearing a silver chain. An unadorned silver crescent dangled at the end. “Are you telling me you left it at the cove? With...with him? With the way it’s been behaving and all?”

“It was the safest place I could think of,” Angharad answered, taking the chain and fastening the clasp behind her neck; the familiar cool weight settled beneath her collarbones comfortingly. “I wanted it to be far away from here, and he’ll keep it safe. It’s not as though he can do anything with it, magically. More’s the pity.”

“Seems risky.”

Angharad shrugged. “Not as risky as keeping it here with that creature on her way.”

“Maybe,” Elen sniffed. “Your mother’s bound to notice; what will you tell her?”

“That it’s hidden. That’s all she need know.”

Elen whistled, low. “She won’t like that.”

“Nothing new, then,” Angharad grumbled. “She speaks often enough of my needing to make independent decisions, until I make one she doesn’t like. It seems to me I’m sacrificing enough to please her. She’ll just have to trust me with this.” She slid on the slippers, frowning. “Don’t worry - I’m going. You won’t have to hear any more unpleasant messages.”

Elen chewed her bottom lip anxiously. “Oh, Milady. What if she’s found you out?”

“I don’t see how she could have,” Angharad snapped, unintentionally shrewish at having her fear spoken aloud. “Unless someone’s told her.” 

Elen radiated shocked hurt. “You don’t think I would!”

“Of course not. I didn’t mean that...I just...oh, _Llyr_.” A dull ache threatened at her temples, and she pushed back at it with both hands with a sigh, wishing she were back at the cove, or out in the woods, or...anywhere but here. “Coming home feels like walking into a web, now, Elen. It tightens more every day. I’m tired of keeping secrets, all of them, and they just keep piling on, like stones on a cairn.” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. It isn’t your fault.”

Elen tsked wearily. “I won’t say I told you so, but...”

“But you did. I know.” A bitter half-smile twisted her face. “But out of all my secrets, don’t begrudge me the only one that makes me happy,” Angharad sighed. She stood, and examined her reflection in the mirror. “You’re right. I’m an utter wreck. Where does Mother want me?”

“West tower; she’s in the cabinet.”

“Nothing that needs dressing up for, then. We’re probably just out of some herb I overlooked and she’s cross about it. Don’t sit up for me; we’re doing more spellwork tonight.”

Elen straightened her clothes, picking a few stray wisps of grass from her seams, looking doubtful. “I don’t know. There’s something in the air. It’s fair tingled all afternoon. Wake me when you get in. I won’t sleep well anyhow, not knowing.”

Angharad promised, and hurried from the chamber, the Pelydryn lighting the way. Despite her bravado in front of Elen, uneasiness plucked at her with agitated fingers. She navigated the dark corridors without seeing them, casting her mind forward toward whatever awaited her, with an increasing sense of foreboding. It was unlike Regat to ask twice for anything - then again, it was unusual for the queen’s first request to go unanswered. Clearly, some unpleasantness was about to ensue, and she must prepare herself for it. Angharad paused before the door of the cabinet, her hand on the latch, and closed her eyes, thought of Geraint’s smile and the light in his eyes and the strength of his arms around her. Whatever happened...she had this, at least.

Her pounding heart slowed a little and she took a breath and raised the latch, pushed the door open.

There was magic in the room. Instantly it enveloped her, stifling and hot, as though there were a raging bonfire within the chamber instead of the sensible, tidy flame that crackled in the grate, and her first instinct was to back out and throw the door wide to let it out. It was a potent, invasive force, trying to penetrate every corner of the place, to wrap itself around her mind. She hesitated in confusion at the sensory onslaught, recoiling at the acrid taste and smell of it, all in the first moment of stepping inside, before she could even register what or who else was within. It took her a moment to comprehend that her mother was speaking, in a voice raised sharply above...what? The strange magic made her ears ring with something that was beyond silence; it was thick, somehow, as though sounds could not push their way through it fast enough.

“Angharad, come in. Shut the door.”

She fumbled for the door latch and pulled it shut behind her with effort. The ache at her temples made good on its threat all at once, spreading across her forehead and pulsing painfully behind her eyes. The queen, seated at her entry, had risen. To her right stood Arianrhod, looking older than she ever had. To her left...

Another figure had risen, tall and stately and statuesque, and stood staring at her with eyes the color and temperature of a cloudless winter sky. Her face was finely-chiseled, white and hard and ageless as a marble statue. Long braids of hair, silver as moonlight, were bound around her head like a crown. Several more fell over her shoulders, glittering against her dark robes. Angharad blinked, and blinked again, trying to comprehend what she saw through the haze of magic that, she realized suddenly, emanated from this woman in a miasma. Her stomach churned, and she fought down a wave of nausea.

The woman smiled, a smile like a splinter of ice between her crimson lips.


	22. Chapter 22

_If the moon smiled_

_She would resemble you._

_You leave the same impression_

_Of something beautiful,_

_but annihilating._

~Sylvia Plath

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two

Regat turned, calm and regal, from the princess to the stranger. “I present my daughter, the Princess Angharad.” She looked hard at Angharad, a warning, measured glance. “Angharad, as we have expected...our guest, the lady Achren.”

Achren’s cold glance flicked sinuously to Regat at the deliberate omission of any royal title, but neither woman betrayed any emotion. Somewhere beneath the dread that paralyzed her Angharad felt a glimmer of dazed respect for her mother’s nerve. She glanced at Arianrhod, who held her gaze silently, steadily; her face was pale, but set and resolute, and the warmth of her eyes seemed to thaw Angharad’s frozen pulse. The princess let out a breath, straightened her spine, and pulled her mind away from the grasping cling of the alien magic. The pulsing at her temples eased, subsiding into a dull throb, unpleasant but tolerable. She opened her dry mouth, trying to find words that would serve both courtesy and truth without revealing her revulsion. “We…we are grateful, lady, for your willingness to travel to us,” she managed, “and for what assistance you may offer. I hope this…relationship will prove mutually beneficial.”

Achren’s ice-blue eyes settled back upon her appraisingly, and her head proud dipped. Jewels winked, nestled within the shining curves of her braids, dangling at her ears, adorning her slender hands. “Charming,” she said, in a voice low but clear, and not altogether devoid of sincerity. “At last, the circle is complete, and I am honored thrice. The queen has refused to conduct any sort of business until you arrived, princess. Such trust in and reliance on so young an heir. Your capabilities must be impressive. It is admirable.”

Angharad caught her breath at the mocking twist of mouth that accompanied the comment, but before she could react it was gone, replaced by a bland and unremarkable expression. Regat looked severely and rather exasperatedly at her daughter. “Indeed. Though I hope an entire day spent away from your duties has rejuvenated you sufficiently.” Her gaze traveled down, took in Angharad’s disheveled hair and rumpled, informal clothing. “It did nothing for your sense of propriety, that’s certain.”

Angharad gulped, horribly conscious of her unkempt appearance, though she thought wildly that Achren’s smooth elegance would have made her feel underdressed in even her most formal ceremonial garments. She glanced again at Arianrhod for support. Her aunt made a conciliatory gesture toward the queen. “A day spent in repose from duty is a blessing,” Arianrhod murmured, “especially duty that has been so overwhelming of late. You ought to avail yourself of such more often, Regat.” Sadness mingled in her smile.

Comforted, the princess found her voice. “I am...better for the day’s rest, Mother. I beg your pardon for returning so late, and in...such a state. I had thought that my presence would not be required until the rituals tonight.”

“Yes, well,” Regat returned, waving a hand dismissively, “what’s done is done. Now that we are all here, we may come to the subject at hand.” She sank to her seat, motioning for all to do the same.

Angharad, heavy with a sense of unreality, crossed to the window opposite the room as far from Achren as she could possibly get, and sat in its alcove, surreptitiously pushing the casement open a crack. The evening air drifted in and she breathed it deeply, trying to rid herself of the repellent cling of this new magic. It tasted and smelled, she realized, very like the alien fire they were battling beneath the earth, only here in Achren’s presence it was sharper, more metallic; thin and piercing like tiny blades, pricking at her senses in a constant, irritating assault. She wondered how her mother and aunt bore it, sitting there as though they felt nothing. The air threading through the mist was cool and damp and faintly briny; she laid her aching head against the windowpane, and thought of Geraint.

Thank Rhiannon she had left her pendant with him.

Regat was speaking to Achren in low tones. “I am sure I need not repeat what I have already made known to you. The manner and methods of the attack have not changed in the interim. We have fought it as we are able, but for every place we shore up, another weakness appears. And the ancillary effects continue.”

Angharad turned her head to listen to the conversation and was disturbed to find that she could not tell whether Achren was staring at her, or merely into space in her direction. She glared back, in case it were the former, but got no reaction. “I cannot know for certain if Arawn is behind these...attacks, as you believe them...unless I observe them for myself,” Achren stated flatly. “You must allow me to scry with you if I am to be of any use.”

“I expected so.” Regat turned to Arianrhod. “Should we wait for full moon, do you think?”

Arianrhod looked very grim. “I think it unnecessary to wait. Perhaps even imprudent. If done now, there will be limitations, but...that is likely for the best.” She made no attempt to conceal her distrust or suspicion of the woman opposite her, but Achren only smiled dryly, her arched brows raised.

Angharad watched the exchange with horrified disbelief. It was unheard of, to share the magic of Llyr with an outsider, to bring a stranger into their sacred space. Yet here sat her mother, calmly arranging it. Arianrhod’s bearing was stiff with disapproval, her brow furrowed; the word _blasphemy_ might as well have been written across her face.

“Very well,” said Regat, without emotion. “Upstairs, then. You two, first.” She nodded to her daughter and sister. “Achren will follow, and I will come last with the book. The altar stands ready.”

Angharad stood up, slowly, and wondered what would happen if she refused to participate. Never had she dared to disobey a direct order from her mother. Her skin crawled beneath icy, crinkling fear as she turned to the door, loathe to turn her back upon Achren, who was now very pointedly staring at her with a strange, triumphant light in her chilled eyes.

The rope railing pricked her cold palm as she wound her way up the spiraled steps to the top of the tower. They emerged from the dark stairwell under a sky grown dark, which meant it was very late: the twentieth hour, at least, Angharad thought. Solstice was coming in a few days and there would be revelry and feasting in the Great Hall, crop sacrifices on every altar, as the people petitioned Belin for his bright sunlight for another year, all while their rulers invited this foreign darkness into the very heart of the kingdom. She shivered. This was madness. Utter madness. She could not do it, could not join hands with…

Achren’s silver head appeared through the dark hole in the floor tiles and she swept onto the tower surface gracefully, the wind flinging long folds of her robe out like the wings of some great black bird. She surveyed the view with approval. “A beautiful location for your rites. Made for the purpose?”

“So it is said,” Regat answered, coming up the stairs behind, carrying the spellbook. “Though the nature of them has changed since its first design, I daresay. Still, it serves.” She placed the book upon the altar and snapped her fingers. The candles flickered into light, and wisps of smoke rose from the ormer shells. Achren looked the implements over with apparent nonchalance, but Angharad felt the magic about her tremble and throb, as tensely watchful as a predator seeking a weakness.

The princess held her breath. She felt she should argue against the _wrongness_ of what was about to take place, but her tongue seemed glued to her mouth. Her thoughts swam confusedly, incapable of forming themselves into words. The acrid magic was seeping into her mind again, prodding, probing. She wanted to scream, and she could make no sound at all.

Regat motioned toward her. “Angharad. The Pelydryn.”

Her trembling hand brought forth the sphere almost of its own accord. It lit, but dimly, as though even its light had trouble fighting the thickness of the air. But the light was warm and real, as familiar and fitting as her own body, and as it filled her vision the dark magic ebbed away before it. Angharad straightened suddenly, her mind clearing, her nerve rallying. “Mother, I must protest this.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to her in surprise, and there was a pregnant silence. Regat broke it first, her voice level. “I beg your pardon?”

Angharad swallowed, and looked away from her mother, gazed instead at Arianrhod, whose anxiety was evident. “Have you thought of what the results might be of bringing her into our circle? Such a thing has never been done. How do you know it will even _work?”_

Regat glanced at Achren and back to her daughter, and rested a hand on the spellbook. “These questions are not new. Arianrhod and I have already discussed the scope of them. Achren’s magic is of a different cast, but she also bears, distantly, the blood of Belin, and there is enough relationship to blend her in. To what extent, we will not know until we try.”

“And what of Rhiannon?” Angharad demanded. “Is it not sacrilege, to invite the barren in? Do you not fear to profane the goddess?”

Regat’s face faltered almost imperceptibly, a heartbeat of betrayed uncertainty. Angharad felt the magic around her crackle, as though the will that controlled it had nearly lost its composure. Achren’s knifelike gaze smote upon her, and she trembled with the effort of not returning it.

It was Arianrhod who broke the silence. “I understand your reservations, Angharad,” she said wearily. “I have them myself, as you know. But if what your mother proposes offends the goddess, she has not made it known to me. And it is not for lack of asking,” she added, with a sigh. “We seem to have no further options.” 

“And how do we know she will not cause trouble even worse than what we already face?” Angharad demanded, before she lost her newfound nerve. She made herself return Achren’s baleful stare at last. “Do you expect us to trust you?”

  
Achren regarded her with something like a spark of grudging respect, responding rather sullenly, “I expect that the terms to which I agreed will be fulfilled. You are free to refuse my assistance, of course, and I will have wasted a long journey, which would please neither me nor your mother, I think. Since I am here, and you are in need, I may as well be of use to you.”

“And you’ll want nothing in return, no doubt,” Angharad snapped.

Achren shrugged her graceful shoulders. “I make no promise of that,” she said silkily, “nor was my coming contingent upon any such condition. Let us be without pretense. If what you suspect is indeed the case, you will require my skills and power.”

Regat, as still as stone, asked, “At what price?”

Achren turned to her, brows arched. “That will depend on what I discover next. What laborer strikes a bargain before she knows the extent of the task?”

A silence fell, thick and heavy. Angharad trembled, clutching the Pelydryn in her hand, and whispered a few words that wrapped her in the comforting essence of her own native elements, a shield against Achren’s presence. She wished, suddenly, that it would rain. Water, cool and fresh and fluid, would help to weaken this pulsing metallic heat beating upon her mind.

Regat made an impatient movement. “We are wasting time. Come, Angharad. I have not planned this without precaution. She will not be joined to the triad but contained within it, and we will serve as the boundary and prevent any mischief.” She motioned for Achren to stand near the altar, and reached out her hands for her daughter and sister.

Understanding what she had in mind relieved Angharad only a little. She stepped forward reluctantly, placing the Pelydryn on its stand, and watched the lines and figures appear upon the book’s unmarred pages, darkening and spreading, as water bleeds up through cloth. Her mother’s hand and Arianrhod’s were both ice-cold in her grasp, but it was the proximity to Achren, standing in the center of their ring like a wild beast trapped within a fence, that made her feel numb. The woman faced her, as if in triumphant mockery of her protest, and Angharad forced herself to look her unflinchingly in the eyes. In the darkness of the night they were black, depthless, with the small circle of golden light from the Pelydryn drowning in their centers.

Regat, standing before the open book, began to read. Magic, their own magic, pure and balanced and potent, condensed from the air, from the ground, flowed into them, entwining around locked hands, rising up through body and spirit. Angharad struggled to keep her eyes open and fixed upon the relentless gaze of the woman before her, this alien presence whose magic she could sense sought its own pathways, its own weaving into the sinuous dance of light and darkness around it. She would not close her eyes until Achren did, she would _not…_

With one final mocking smile Achren shut her eyes, and Angharad let her consciousness sink out, away from herself, from the restraints of bone and blood and breath, into the communion of power, the spiral of fire and water surrounding the strange pillar of roiling, solid flame at its center. Achren’s magic was recognizable, close kin to that power they had been fighting for weeks, and it sought its own at once, drawing them all down into the depths. Their spirits sank beneath earth, beneath the crushing weight of stone and sea, to where threads of molten fire gnawed at their foundations like malevolent blind worms. Achren followed them, probing their edges, casting wide nets of inquiry over the spreading darkness. Her power twisted, turned, wound among the wills that surrounded it and hemmed it in, but made no attempt to escape its boundaries; it was singular of purpose, and smoldered with a raging fury that made the fire seem cool by comparison.

It seemed a long time before Angharad came to herself on the tower once more, and found she was damp with sweat and exhausted. Her hands gripped her elders’ still, clutched for support. Her opened eyes focused on the woman in their ring, who stood with bowed head and a face that twitched with some strong emotion; suppressed anger, perhaps, or frustration; there was no triumph or mockery now.

Regat released her hand and the ring was broken; the sensory effects of magic faded into whispers, into sighs, and disappeared. Even Achren’s aura ceased its relentless assault, shrinking away into her bent figure. She straightened slowly, as if it pained her, and Angharad remembered, suddenly, that Achren was old, older than all of them…no one even knew how old.

The light of the Pelydryn dimmed and went out, and the candles flickered and died as a chill breeze drifted over them. From behind broken shreds of cloud, the oblong moon shed mottled flakes of pale light.

Regat broke the silence. “Well?” she asked quietly.

Achren did not meet eyes with any of them. She stared into the distance, without expression, but her chest rose audibly with every breath, and her bearing was tense.

When the silence grew too long Regat raised her voice. “Is it Arawn?”

The marble-white face twitched and darkened at the name spoken aloud. Achren seemed to draw herself back, back; she closed like a door, snapping shut and locking. Her gaze slid toward the queen’s like a serpent. “Your suspicions are well-founded, to a point.”

“Speak plainly,” Regat ordered, and Achren held up one white hand, a gash of pale flesh against her dark robes.

“He did not create these faults,” she explained. “The earth remakes itself continually, and just now it happens to be doing so beneath the island. Arawn exploits the flaws, using certain of the arts of fire he learned from me, pushing it farther toward the surface, to threaten your domain.” Achren stepped to the edge of the tower, resting her hands upon the stone wall, looking out upon the dark land. “I can resist him, though to what extent I will not know until I make the attempt. My powers…are not what they once were.” Her voice was hollow, laced with blistering contempt.

Angharad twitched impatiently. “This is little more than we had already suspected. Can you make nothing of his design?” she demanded. “Why should he attack us?”

Achren turned and regarded her with cool deliberation. “Now, that,” she answered, “is an intriguing question. Destruction brings him great pleasure, but he does not seek pleasure for its own sake.” Her face went hard, lips pressed back against her teeth in a faint and fleeting snarl, the look of one who speaks from bitter experience. “He does nothing without purpose. Therefore he has some motive. You have never posed a threat to him, nor would he bother to seek dominion over such a small realm, easily plucked once he attained his designs upon Prydain.” She cast a scornful glance out upon the landscape, but then her eyes narrowed, and a shrewd, calculating gleam stole over her face. “No,” she murmured low, “you have something he wants.” She looked sharply at Regat. “What is it?”

Regat looked startled for an instant, as though she had just been unpleasantly awakened, a moment of betrayed vulnerability that frightened Angharad more than anything else had. The queen laid a hand upon the spellbook and stared at it blankly. “We have nothing. Nothing that would be of any use to him.” She seemed to see the book suddenly, her eyes focusing upon its now-empty pages. “Our implements, our spells — he cannot use any of our magic.”

“Then it is something else,” Achren pressed. “Something beyond the powers of the Daughters of Llyr. More potent, most likely, or he would take no interest. What other power is there on this island?”

Regat’s face was unreadable. “I know of nothing of the kind. But if it does exist, it hardly seems effective for him to seek to destroy us, and potentially lose it in the process,” she added, a touch of her self-composure returning. Her dark eyes smoldered doubtfully upon Achren, who flinched a little, and seemed to withdraw into herself again.

“You may choose not to reveal everything, of course,” Achren remarked coldly, “but I can only be as useful as I am informed.”

“I have told you what I can,” the queen stated, a dangerous edge in her voice. “We may keep certain secrets for a time, for the good of the people, but _we_ do not deal in deception.”

 _Gods,_ Angharad thought, biting her own tongue until it bled. To make such a claim, when so much deception had gone on for weeks! Tension crackled in the air; her skin and scalp prickled; she could almost see the two wills of the women before her, iron and fire striving, seeking any weakness…and yet they were mirrored, related; the inner flame of each tainted and mingled in reluctant sympathy with the other. Two queens of troubled realms: one long lost, one still in the balance.

 _No._ She shook herself angrily. There must be something they could do that did not involve an alliance with Achren. Whatever help she could give was surely not worth whatever price she would demand. The cold, ravenous gleam in her eye at the suggestion of untapped power on the island could not have been lost on the queen.

“I must consider all this,” Regat said, finally. The thickness in the air stilled, watchful. “You say you can resist him. How, exactly?”

Achren shrugged, her manner wary. “I know the limitations of the power he is using. You will have to allow me to combat it in my own manner, and I can slow, perhaps even halt his assault for a time. But I cannot predict what he will do once he finds himself resisted. He may redouble his efforts, to try to force your hand.”

“Force our hand?” Angharad blurted out. All eyes turned toward her. “Force it to what? So he thinks we have some secret great power we have held in reserve? Or does he mean simply to drive us off the island that he may search it at his leisure?”

Achren’s eyes glittered. “If Llyr’s monarchs have not these answers, you cannot expect _me_ to know them. I suggest you look into it for yourselves. My help will buy you time, but I can assure you he will not rest until he has what he seeks; for that reason alone it behooves you to discover it first.”

“And the terms for your help?” Regat intoned. Arianrhod shook her head in silent protest. Achren reached out, and ran a red-nailed finger along the edge of the altar in a gesture that seemed, somehow, sensuously possessive. It turned Angharad’s stomach.

“I cannot predict how this will end: whether Llyr will stand or fall,” the woman murmured, “nor is its fate of particular concern to me. Thwarting the will of the one who betrayed me is reward of its own, to be sure. But my own arts have revealed to me something that concerns your line, in which I do take great interest.” She paused, and looked directly at Regat, her expression a strange mix of resentment and pride. “I ask only…a seat at your table, when you find yourselves in authority — elsewhere.”

“What riddles are these?” Regat demanded sternly. “This island is our home, and never have we sought power elsewhere.”

“Ah, but you will,” Achren answered softly, in a hiss like an adder’s. “Or it will seek you. One of you.” She gazed at the Pelydryn in its stand, and Angharad felt a sudden impulse to spring forward and knock it away, out of her line of sight, heedless of where it might fall so long as it went unsullied by that glance.

“I grow weary of this game,” the queen warned. Her voice was clear and deep, all at once, ringing with resolve. “Your thirst for endless and expanding control is well-known. Do not assume we share it. If this island falls, I will do what I must to preserve the people, and no more. Never will I betray neighbor or ally to take what is not freely given, nor will I assist you, no matter what authority we may ever have, in regaining what you have lost.”

The words hung upon the air and Angharad shut her eyes, pulled strength from them like a thread unraveled from a garment. Arianrhod moved close to her and clasped her hand comfortingly.

“Think you that I still desire a throne?” Achren asked. She laughed, a sound of bitter mockery. “I cannot blame you for it. Prydain is mine by right, and I could fight for it if I chose. But like Arawn, I do not spend my power to no purpose. I came here in order to ally myself with the future.” She smiled slowly, as one who savors the anticipation before a meal, and her gaze drifted to Angharad, a strange light in her face. “The crown of Prydain shall not be mine again, but neither will the Sons of Don forever keep what they have stolen.

“I tell you the truth,” Achren breathed, lowering her voice to a hoarse rumble, little more than a whisper. “A Daughter of Llyr will sit on that throne, and reign as High Queen.”


	23. Chapter 23

_i break into diamonds._

_i fall like stars._

_i turn_

_and turn again._

_i am hope in the dark._

_i am love that cannot die._

_i am power_

_and i am light._

_i am._

_i am._

_i am._

~AVA

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three

Once again, a stunned silence pressed the air back, stifling. The acrid magic crowded close, filling in the emptiness with its own vibration, beyond the range of hearing. Angharad’s temples throbbed and she squinted through a wave of pain as she tried to comprehend what had been spoken. Next to her, Arianrhod was stiff as iron, her handclasp tight and rigid.

Regat’s expression did not change, but her face darkened a shade. “We have received no such vision. You will forgive my doubts. How is it that so weighty a prophecy has not been revealed to those it most concerns?”

Achren raised one eyebrow with solemn, dry mockery. “Most likely because there are lengths, in such inquiries, to which you will not go.”

Angharad thought of the rune carved into her mother’s palm. She stared at Achren’s sinuous white hands, wondering to what lengths they had gone, and shuddered.

“For that matter, who can tell why or how the fates choose to reveal themselves?” Achren continued smoothly. “You know as well as I that there are mysteries beyond our control. Perhaps it was given me that I might better know how to respond to your summons.”

“Oh, this is rubbish,” Angharad snapped. Pain sharpened into anger, overriding her fear. She could no longer bear that ice-shard smile with restraint. “We have never sought such a position. And if we did, it could be mine for no more than a word.”

Achren and Regat both turned to her, and Achren’s pale face colored for a heartbeat. The queen acknowledged the truth with a thoughtful nod. “You speak of Gwydion. Indeed, he would be only too happy to enthrone you at his side, when he ascends.” She looked severely upon Achren. “Did this premonition of yours say how it was to be fulfilled?”

“No,” Achren said flatly. “Nor indeed was it clear exactly to whom it referred. The next generation, perhaps - or even the next. But certainly, in light of your situation, the timing would appear fortuitous.” She looked curiously at Angharad. “So…the prince has sought you, has he? I should not be surprised.” Her eyes narrowed and she turned to Regat. “Have you considered the match?”

Regat frowned. “I refused his suit. Even were he willing to abdicate the throne to come here, the Prince of Don has no gifting of any note, save a few whimsies of Dallben’s, from what I hear. It is our law to acquire consorts that are practicing enchanters of reasonably high skill—to fill in where we lack, to add to the protection of the island, and to ensure no weakening of descent.”

“Given the state of things,” Achren pressed, “you might reconsider it. There will be no need for him to abdicate if you were to unite the kingdoms. Unless you halt Arawn’s assault permanently - which is by no means certain - the island may become too unstable to remain, and you will need to move the people to safety.The High King could have no objection to granting refuge to your subjects under such an alliance. These other trifles can be settled easily enough once the highest authority is yours to wield.”

This was intolerable. “Stop!” Angharad burst out passionately. She dropped Arianrhod’s hand and stumbled forward, trembling, inserting herself between her mother and Achren in a subconscious attempt to sever the twisted empathy she sensed there, and stood facing her adversary. “I will not be a piece in your gameplay. For someone who loathes the Sons of Don so much, you are terribly quick to accept a proposal from one on my behalf.”

Achren’s mouth twitched, her demeanor darkly amused. “It would not be _my_ wedding, pretty one. None of _you_ have any objection to them, I believe. But of course it is all one to me.” She waved a hand dismissively. “If my vision is sound, it will be proven in time, whether you will it or no. I merely point out that such an alliance would solve the greater part of your dilemma —preserving your people and your line — in one strategic move.”

“Yes,” Angharad hissed, “no doubt the welfare of our people is of vast importance to you.” She faced her mother imploringly. “Mother, can you not see her design? Remember her terms: a seat at the table. Do you really think Gwydion or the High King would agree to appointing her anywhere in court, in any position of influence? This is a farce.”

Regat’s hard face thawed just a little, a subtle sign of approval, but she made no direct answer. “I think we have heard enough for tonight,” she announced, moving around her daughter to take up the spellbook. “I have much to consider, and will make no decisions until I have had time to do so. If all you speak is true, Achren, there are still several paths we might travel. And though your news is troubling, we are all the better prepared, thanks to your insight.” She paused, facing the fallen queen. “For this much, you have my gratitude.”

Achren made no gesture, but again, a silent and reluctant flicker of mutual respect seemed to pass between the two women, and Angharad winced at her interception of it. She reached out and snatched the Pelydryn from its stand, stuffing it into her pocket and stalking back toward the edge of the tower, looking out from its height. The island spread black below, out and out to where the sea winked, a sinuous silver line, on the southern horizon. Her throat ached, burned. The first vision, ages ago, it seemed, of fire and flood and emptiness, wavered before her eyes. All this land, all its people. Dispersed. Crumbled. Gone.

 _No._ It could not be.

Her mind raced. She barely heard her mother saying something about escorting Achren to her private apartment, and presently registered that she was alone with Arianrhod upon the tower. Arianrhod, gentle, peace-loving, maternal - she had remained almost silent throughout the exchange, unfailingly submissive to her authoritative sister. Now she moved close to Angharad, stood next to her at the tower wall, her arm resting warm around her niece’s shoulders.

“Do you think she speaks truth?” Angharad whispered. The wind pulled the words away, lost them in the darkness. “About any of it?”

“Who can say?” Arianrhod sighed. “Given her reputation, it would be foolish _not_ to be wary of her information.”

“I suppose _she_ must believe what she says,” muttered Angharad, “or she wouldn’t have come at all. Unless she thinks to manipulate us with it somehow. If this vision of hers is true, I don’t know why it should be such a revelation. There have been marriage alliances into neighboring kingdoms before, after all - as long as we have an heir and a priestess, any further Daughters are free to marry off the island if they choose.”

“True, but it was never common,” Arianrhod pointed out. “If you look through our histories, love of the island has nearly always won out over love of foreign men and their oppressive customs. Branwen and the king of Eiren set too grave a precedent. And not since Penarddun herself has the blood of Llyr mingled with that of Don.”

Angharad, recalling something, smiled grimly. “She forgot her own words in her haste to bid for a quick solution. Mind what she said: ‘Neither will the Sons of Don keep what they have stolen.’ That sounds like she foresaw a supplanting, not a marriage - not that it’s a better explanation,” she added, her smile fading into a puzzled frown. “Does she think one of us will overthrow the High King? That’s even _less_ credible. Laughable, in fact.”

“I do not know what to think of it,” admitted Arianrhod, “but I would say this: whatever she saw, such prophecies are vague and uncertain by their very nature, easily misinterpreted and even possible to thwart, though deliberate attempts to do so usually fail. But so too, do attempts to hasten their fulfillment - such meddling often has unexpected and very mixed results. It is why I do not hold with soothsaying as a general rule; it tends only to confuse the present with unnecessary distraction. We have enough to concern ourselves with, without worrying about infinite possible futures.” She tapped her fingers upon the parapet. “More pressing is this question of an unknown power on the island.”

"Your father sought the same,” said Angharad, quietly.

Silence. Heartbeats. “I thought of that as well,” Arianrhod murmured.

“Do you think Mother did?”

“She cannot have forgotten it. I should think she must have.”

“If she did, she hid it well,” Angharad said, thinking of Regat’s blank face. “It beggars belief, that we could be harboring something powerful enough to tempt Arawn without knowing it. How could we have forgotten such a thing? From what source did your father acquire his suspicions?”

Arianrhod shook her head. “I don’t know. His notes and records were all destroyed, and Regat always maintained that it was nonsense, a chasing after empty legend.”

“Yes, but what legend?” Frustration chewed at her mind with grinding teeth. “The only legend connected with Pentre Gwyllion is that it’s where the king was buried and his sons—,” she sputtered to a halt. The body of the king. The desecration. The Gwyllion, the protection of... “Aunt,” she whispered, “what are the _Dagrau_ _Rhiannon_?”

Arianrhod made the divine sign automatically, but her face showed only bewilderment. “Tears of the goddess?” she queried.

“It’s the name of something, the things the Gwyllion were protecting during the war of the sons of Llyr, the whole _reason_ they were given the spot.”

“I have never heard of them. Where did you find this out?” 

“Come with me,” Angharad gasped out, gripping her aunt by the elbow and dragging her toward the stairwell. She dug the Pelydryn from her pocket as she flung herself down the winding steps, Arianrhod hurrying behind. 

“A bit slower, love. I’ve neither your light nor your youth,” Arianrhod panted as they reached the bottom, turning into a passageway. Angharad grabbed her hand and pulled her along, her mind racing feverishly. She made no answer to Arianrhod’s breathless questions as they swept along, back toward her own chamber; she would say nothing that might be overheard by anyone. 

Her room was dark, the embers black in the hearth. Angharad waved Arianrhod inside, shut the door, and laid the Pelydryn on a table with trembling hands. Her satchel still lay near her couch, and she seized it, drawing out the parchment roll. “Look,” she ordered. “It’s the treaty — the one recorded after your father was banished, the one we discussed this morning. I found it and read over it all.”

They both settled on the couch as Arianrhod took the scroll and unfurled it. Angharad bent over it, searching the lines. “Look, this bit here. ‘…in the protection, during the blasphemous desecration committed by the accursed sons of Llyr upon said hallowed ground, of the third of the _Dagrau Rhiannon’._ That’s the legend, isn’t it? That the brothers desecrated the king’s tomb, but the story never says why. It seems as though it’s put up to just battle rage and madness…but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe they were looking for something…these _Dagrau_ , whatever they are, and the Fair Folk protected them….or a third of them, anyway.”

 _“Good Llyr,”_ Arianrhod whispered. She scanned the words swiftly, over and again.

There was a soft, familiar step nearby and Elen appeared at the end of the couch, bed-tousled and hollow-eyed, clad in her nightshift and robe. When she saw Arianrhod she dropped a hasty curtsy and a murmured formality before seeking her mistress’s eye. “What’s happened? Are you all right, milady?”

Angharad nodded, reaching to clasp her hand. “Oh, Elen, it’s so late. You needn’t have gotten up.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Elen sighed, returning her squeeze and then turning to the hearth. “I knew I wouldn’t.” She bent to place a log on the blackened embers. Angharad set it ablaze with a preoccupied flick of the wrist, wondering how much to tell.

“Achren’s come,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. Elen’s pale face turned even paler, and Arianrhod cast Angharad a swift, warning glance.“That’s why Mother wanted me.”

“Blast,” Elen breathed softly. “I’ve been hoping all along she wouldn’t in the end. What’s she like?”

“Horrible. Smooth as cream and curdled underneath. I don’t know what I expected, but not that,” Angharad grunted. “But she did reveal a few bits of information that may be helpful.”

“Is she here in the castle?”

“Mother said something about a private apartment. The guest quarters in the east wing, I’d imagine. She’s not to do any magic without one of us present, but I’m sure it won’t stop her from working what mischief she can. No one is supposed to know she’s here, so keep your ears open for any talk among the staff.”

“Who’s waiting on her?”

“I don’t know.” Angharad turned back to Arianrhod. “Did Mother mention to you how she’s handling her?”

“She’s under a false name while she’s here,” Arianrhod murmured, without taking her eyes from the text, “but she’s mostly to stay within her apartment, and Regat has provided for her amply. They discussed the terms before you arrived this evening, and she seemed reasonably satisfied. Though how your mother thinks she will occupy any time not spent working with us, I have no idea.” She waved this away, and nodded at the parchment. “We must speak with Regat about this. No matter how she feels about Pentre Gwyllion and the associated legends, this track must be pursued. It is too vital.”

Angharad thought of her mother with a shiver of apprehension, and then a guilty twist of conscience. Of course they should speak to her; she was, after all, the queen, and should know their suspicions. Perhaps she even would know to what the strange name referred.

“That dream of yours this morning,” Arianrhod said thoughtfully. “Remind me of the details.”

Angharad pulled the other parchment from the satchel and handed it over, feeling somewhat startled. In her intense attention to the treaty she had forgotten about her dream; she could almost hear Eilwen’s exasperated remark: _Yes, that is why you write them down._ Now the images came back to her vividly; the ominous stones, her tumble to the quaking ground and her bloody fist clutching her pendant, her assurance to the ancient sentinels there that she hadn’t come to steal but to—

To…

Her mind froze, sending a wave of ice-coldness prickling over her scalp and down the back of her neck. She sprang up from the couch and stumbled toward the fire blindly, her sight turned inward, desperately searching her hazy memories. The jewel, flashing upon her pendant in her dream, burning in her fingers upon awakening. It had come from the Fair Folk, and the Fair Folk protected Pentre Gwyllion, or perhaps something hidden _within_ Pentre Gwyllion...

“Milady!” Elen’s anxious voice broke into her mind and she startled at a hand laid on her arm. “What is it? Are you ill?”

Angharad turned to her, grasped her arms, still trying to catch at the threads of her thoughts. “The gem,” she gasped. “My gem. On the pendant. Aunt — do you think _it_ could be—,”

Arianrhod looked up from the scribbled dream. She stared at Angharad, her face a mingling of shock, doubt, and dawning, cautious comprehension. “The gift of the Fair Folk,” she whispered, “on Regat’s wedding day. But—no, how could they? To accuse our father of attempted theft, but then make Regat a gift of the very thing he hoped to take? It would be a cruel joke. There would be no sense in it.”

Angharad shook her head. “No, there wouldn’t, but... did they say anything when they gave it? Any sort of explanation?”

“Oh, mercy,” Arianrhod sighed, putting a hand to her brow and wincing. “It was so long ago. Something about a renewal of trust between our people, and proof of their continued esteem. Regat may remember better - though she won’t like being asked about it.”

Elen was watching the exchange with apprehension. “Are you saying you think that sparkly bit of rock on your pendant has something to do with the trouble on the island?”

Angharad paced to the couch again and sat, her hands working feverishly in midair, a mirror of her rapidly revolving thoughts. “I don’t know. But Achren says Arawn wants something we have. Something powerful, separate from our magic. And we know the gem has power of some sort, though I never would have thought it would be enough to draw Arawn’s attention. And yet it’s been...awakening, I suppose you’d call it, lately. Behaving oddly, showing up in my dream...both dreams!” She gasped, as her dream from the woods suddenly blazed into clarity. “I remember! _I remember.._.” The words tumbled over one another, her voice rising in excitement. “The first dream I had — the one with three stars. I was...”

She choked as the full weight of the memory broke upon her, thoughts reeling. “I was...crying. And my tear fell and split into three stars. They formed that..that symbol, the one we all saw in the scry...And...something happened in the midst of it. I can’t recall that part. But by the end one of the stars had settled right at my throat. I thought I’d swallowed it, and I woke up clutching at my pendant so hard the jewel cut my finger.” 

Arianrhod stared at her as though entranced, white-lipped and eyes wide with disbelieving awe. _“Dagrau Rhiannon,”_ she breathed. “The tears of the goddess. Three in one. Oh, blessed gods.”

The treaty slid from her slack grasp to the floor and Elen snatched it up, muttering, “I don’t understand any of this.”

Angharad groped blindly at Arianrhod’s sleeve, her eyes shut in a frown of concentration. “And our visions - Aunt! The woman in our scrying vision, you remember - silver-haired, and holding a jewel very like mine...perhaps the same one. It’s what made Eilwen think of hiding it from Achren.”

“And both vision and dream indicated a connection with Pentre Gwyllion,” Arianrhod breathed. “Oh, Angharad. The jewel. Bring it out, love, let me see it.”

Angharad jerked her hand to her throat in surprise, realizing for the first time that her pendant had slipped beneath the neckline of her gown, hidden to observers, and she pulled it out with trembling fingers. “I...I don’t have it. This is my old pendant. I left the gem at the cove.” She gulped, and went pale, as a stone seemed to sink to the pit of her stomach. “With Geraint.”

Arianrhod blanched, and silence fell like the blow of an axe, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the grate. The very walls of the room seemed to hold their breath. Angharad sprang up, heart racing. Geraint, alone at the cove with the jewel...this thing of power, if they were right, this thing so potent Arawn himself was tearing through their very bedrock to find it. She whirled, stumbled to her wardrobe and threw it open, snatching up a cloak. “Oh, _Llyr_ , I’ve got to go to him.”

Arianrhod stood up also, her posture straight and serious. “Yes. But not alone. Go and get the spell book - we left it on the tower - bring it, and meet me in the grove. I shall arrange for horses. We’ll go together.”

Angharad hesitated in surprise, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, that’s...oh, Aunt,” she gasped, over a sob trying to escape, “if he should come to harm—,”

“All right now, no need for hysterics,” Elen interrupted, jerking the cloak from her trembling hands and laying it over her shoulders briskly, fastening it with the carelessness of long familiarity. “Whatever the thing is, it’s not likely to have killed him in a few hours when you’ve worn it for years. Good Llyr, it’s the middle of the night. If all this fuss can’t be put off ‘til morning you can at least be dignified about it. Take those slippers off and I’ll get your boots. No use ruining _another_ pair of shoes.” She bustled away, grumbling to herself, and Arianrhod cast an affectionate smile in her direction as she took Angharad by the arms.

“She’s right,” Arianrhod murmured. “We need answers, not fears. Peace, now. Whatever else, it seems to me that you carry the favor of Rhiannon.” She bent forward and kissed Angharad on the brow. “I do not think she brought you such a gift only to wrest him away. Now. In the grove, within the hour. Elen,” she added, with a glance at the girl. “Say nothing of what you have heard. If the queen sends for Angharad - unlikely, at this hour - tell her only that she is with me.”

Elen curtsied and Angharad stared, brought up short. “You’re not going to tell her?”

Arianrhod hesitated and her eyes, full of doubt, lowered, turned inward. “Not now.” She cupped her hand to her breast, touched the silver disk that rested there with thoughtful reverence. “No. Not yet. Not until we know.”

Her clear eyes flashed once again, resolute. “Within the hour,” she repeated firmly, and left the room in a hurried sweep of long silver-gray robes.


	24. Chapter 24

_There are days my pain is so elaborate…_

_that the salt of my tears tastes not of my own_

_but like that of my ancestors—_

_and the women who dealt_

_with this sorrow before me._

~Segovia Amil

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four 

Geraint didn’t know he’d been asleep until he was abruptly awakened.

He had tossed and turned for a long time, his mind full of many conflicting emotions after the day’s conversations and events, and oppressed by an odd sense of being not quite alone. Probably it was only his imagination…but he kept glancing at the lintel of his door, where Angharad’s pendant was hidden, worrying that he should find a better place for it - buried, maybe, or behind a loose stone in the wall. When he finally drifted away it had been a restless sort of sleep, a drifting in and out of conscious awareness, a slow shift from the dark silence of his hut to strange and disturbing half-awake dreams, full of images of fire and flood. He thought himself trapped inside a ring of giant stones, pinched and prodded by invisible hands, dragged into the earth by eldritch creatures who retreated, shrieking horribly, as a great tremor shook the ground. He awoke with a shout and sat up in a panic; the noise of the tremor was still going on…no, it wasn’t. Someone was beating at his door.

Angharad’s voice called frantically and he scrambled off his pallet and stumbled, clumsy with sleep, to the door, which he flung open, immediately flinching backwards with a cry of surprise. Angharad it was, glowing in the light of her golden sphere, looking almost as wildly desperate as the first night she’d come here — but she was flanked by her sister and another woman, a stranger. Instantly he was conscious that he was clad in nothing but his leggings, and he backed away in panicked embarrassment, swiping at the ground for his shirt and stuttering apologies.

Angharad swept breathlessly into the hut and threw her arms around him. “Oh, thank goodness,” she exclaimed, inexplicably, and then released him with barely a glance; she turned to the doorway and reached over the lintel, swept her hand across its edge and pulled down the small parcel of linen. The other two women followed her inside somewhat more sedately; Eilwen grinned at him as he fumbled with his shirt, whose inside-out dishevelment remained stubbornly uncooperative with his awkward efforts to don it. “Well-met again, Geraint of Gellau,” she purred.

“Indeed, milady,” he stammered, wishing the floor would swallow him. “I am honored.”

Her gaze scanned his bare chest with obvious approval. “Don’t feel you have to dress on _our_ account.”

“Eilwen,” the older woman reproved mildly. Geraint dared to glance at her, and pieced her identity together in a quick succession of observations: tall and stately, dark-haired and clear-eyed, suffused with a mature, serene beauty of middle age despite being rather windblown at the moment. The set of her mouth and the arch of her brows reminded him strongly of Angharad’s, but the softness in her face made him sure he did not look upon the queen. The aunt, then, the priestess. He averted his eyes from her face at once, and bowed.

“Angharad,” the woman said, with a solemnity that did not altogether mask a touch of amusement, “would you kindly present me to our host.”

Angharad, engaged in untangling the silver chain from its wrappings, looked up, startled. “Oh. I—oh! Geraint of Gellau.” Her face colored as she registered his state of undress for apparently the first time. “My aunt, Arianrhod, Daughter of Llyr and High Priestess of Rhiannon.”

“Well-met and welcome, my lady,” Geraint murmured, without rising; Arianrhod stepped forward, reached out and tipped his chin up.

“You may look at me,” she said quietly, without condescension. “Stand up, my dear. Well-met, indeed, Geraint of Gellau. I have heard much of you, and would that we had met under less intrusive circumstances. Forgive us for this, and be at your ease. Though by all means,” she added, with a sideways glance at Eilwen and a humorous quirk of her mouth, “put your shirt on.”

Rather awed, he hastened to comply, conscious of Eilwen’s disappointed sigh, and restored himself to decency as Angharad turned to him and blurted out, “I’m sorry to have woken you. It was rather urgent.”

Geraint shook his head, baffled. “So I guessed. I wasn’t asleep, not deeply. I can’t explain it, but…I felt as though it was watching me.” He indicated the pendant in her hand with a nod. “Odd, I know, but…I couldn’t shake it off. It made me restless.”

The women exchanged significant glances. “Did anything strange happen?” Angharad asked him tensely.

He glanced at each, subconsciously sensing the charged atmosphere that hung about them, his curiosity piqued by the uniqueness of the situation. He had an odd sensation that the little hut was not large enough to hold them all. “No,” he said slowly, “nothing. Though I assume this surprise visit means you expected otherwise.”

Angharad looked upon the pendant clutched in her hand with wary curiosity, as though she had never seen it before. “I don’t know what we expected,” she sighed, a sound of mingled frustration and fear.

Eilwen had removed her cloak and thrown it over his stool; from somewhere beneath it she produced a large book, leather-bound. “You never apologized for waking _me_ up,” she remarked to her sister, “and I didn’t get dragged out here in the middle of the blessed night just to admire the view - delightful though it is,” she added, with a wink at Geraint. “Come, let’s get to work.”

“Outside,” Arianrhod directed decidedly, “and to the sand. It’s far too close in here.”

They filed out, and Geraint followed as Angharad bade him with a silent backward glance. She paused outside the door to wait for him, taking his hand and drawing close to him as the little party moved toward the beach. There was unmistakable tension in her arm and shoulder, in the tightness of her grip. “What is it?” he whispered. “What is all this about?”

Angharad shook her head. “I don’t even know where to begin. But I’ll explain once we know more. In a moment, I hope.”

Arianrhod halted at a stretch of smooth sand just before the reach of the lapping waves, crouched low, and laid her hands upon the ground. The sand shifted itself around her contact, folding into rippling patterns that spread out in a symmetrical design, sinuous and intricate, as though drawn by an invisible hand. Geraint stopped short at the sight, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck prickling with unease. Angharad squeezed his hand. “It’s all right,” she whispered.

“I’m sure it is,” he whispered back, “but it’s uncanny, if you aren’t used to it.”

Eilwen, materializing on his other side, tossed him a saucy half-smile as she passed them. “If that bothered you, you’d best back up and sit down for the rest.” She hesitated, looking at the symbol, and glancing around it. “There’s nowhere to put the book, Aunt.”

Arianrhod motioned toward them. “We need the jewel in the center. Let him hold the book and the Pelydryn.”

Geraint felt Angharad stiffen and she glanced at him, exclaiming, “Can he?”

“We’ve no stand. It’s unusual, but I don’t think it will harm anything. Or him,” Arianrhod added, as if it were an afterthought. “He is favored.”

Before he quite knew what was happening, Geraint found himself pulled forward. Eilwen pushed the open book into his elbow and he clutched it automatically, looking down at its blank pages in surprise. Angharad faced him, chewing anxiously at her lip. “Are you willing? I won’t command this of you. We can find some other way.”

“What am I agreeing to?” he asked, bewildered.

A little amusement broke through her anxiety. “Only to hold the book and the light. Our hands will be full. It won’t be dangerous, just...strange to you.”

“I’ll do whatever you need,” he murmured, and the quick flicker in her eyes told him she heard every layer beneath the words. Her hand in his shifted, and a cool, smooth sphere was pressed into his palm. He held it up curiously as she cupped his hand in both of hers, and the warm golden light bloomed between them like a miniature sun.

“Just hold it here,” she instructed, positioning his hand; he glanced down and exclaimed in surprise. The book’s previously blank pages, illuminated, were now thick with scrawled text, none of it comprehensible to him.

“How—,” he began, but she shushed him.

“Don’t speak. And don’t move, no matter what happens. I’ll tell you when it’s safe.” She turned pages searchingly. Arianrhod and Eilwen crowded in, their gazes upon the book. The air around them felt so charged he would not have been shocked if sparks had crackled from their hair and clothing.

“That one,” Arianrhod said presently, and the page-turning halted. They all looked thoughtful, scanning it, murmuring affirmation, and Angharad held up the silver chain, the crescent rotating at its end, winking in the moonlight. She laid it in the center of the symbol in the sand, and the three of them gathered around it, joining hands.

What followed seemed to Geraint, forever after, like the recall of a vivid dream; moments of intense color and sensation haphazardly broken by spaces filled with the certainty that something had happened, but with no memory of what. He knew Angharad had given him one more very long look, her finger pressed over her lips in a reminder of his silence. He heard their three voices chanting strange words, had a vague sense that the sound of the surf nearby had changed in response, though he could not have articulated what that change was, any more than he could have described the nature of their speech. Light flowed and ebbed in dizzying patterns, now blinding him with brightness, now with its total absence. Vibrations buzzed beneath his feet, and he thought once that the tide had suddenly engulfed them all and submerged them, but before he could panic the sensation was gone and he was blinking confusedly at the ground, where the pattern in the sand had changed.From the silver pendant, a line of light spiraled, stretching outward until it parted into arms that reached for the two other spirals that had appeared near it. He started with recognition; it was the same symbol Angharad had drawn for him, many days ago.

The chanting had stopped, and a significant, weighted silence took its place. Geraint glanced at each woman’s face in turn; in the strange and unearthly light they seemed almost identical, their colors bled out, features altered into masks of power, terribly beautiful, terrifyingly severe. His head swam dizzily, and a primitive, visceral instinct made him drop, without thought, to his knees.

The movement seemed to startle Angharad awake; she shook herself and broke away from the triad, dropping her companions’ hands and crouching beside him, calling his name. She took his face in her hands and turned it, and when he looked at her she was herself again, familiar, forehead furrowed in concern. He blinked, feeling a little sheepish, and stammered out, “I...I’m sorry...I’m all right, just...”

“Overwhelmed,” Eilwen interrupted, from nearby. “You did well, for a novice.” He looked up to see both the others likewise transformed to their everyday - he could not truthfully call it ordinary - appearance,and Eilwen’s cheeky grin flashed briefly before she turned to Arianrhod. “What do you think? Confirmation, isn’t it?”

Angharad stood up, but her hand stayed on his head, pressing it protectively against her side, and Geraint curled an arm around her hips, breathing in the scent of her: warm and comforting and human, whatever she had been a moment ago. Arianrhod, about to speak, seemed to hesitate as she glanced at them both. “It is,” she affirmed at last, “confirmation. But not direction. And now we must choose one, with little to go on.”

“There is only one that makes any sense,” Angharad said, with a tension in her voice and figure that told him she expected an argument, “and that is to consult the gwyllion. We’ve danced around it enough. It must be done, and soon. The only question is who will go.”

“And whether to tell Mother,” Eilwen added soberly, but Arianrhod was shaking her head, looking distressed.

“She must not know. She must not be told any of this.” She knelt to retrieve the pendant. The spiraling light in the sand vanished the instant the jewel left the ground, and the woman cupped it in her hand reverently. _“Dagrau Rhiannon,”_ she whispered, gesturing with one hand to her breast. “How could we have forgotten?”

“Perhaps we were meant to,” Angharad said. “This is only one of them. If there really are three, imagine the power of them joined. It could be dangerous beyond imagining.”

“We don’t _know_ what this one does,” Eilwen remarked flippantly, “besides make you dream in riddles. For all we know the three of them together might do no more than make rabbits out of raindrops. I’m not saying it’s _likely_ ,” she added, at a frown from the High Priestess, “but it’s possible.”

Geraint stirred, and Angharad shifted as he rose to his feet, leaning into him unconsciously. He gazed at the gem glittering in Arianrhod’s hand, piecing things together. “I take it,” he murmured, “this is the thing that treaty was intended to protect?”

“Yes. That is...it’s what the Fair Folk were guarding at Pentre Gwyllion, we think,” Angharad answered, as the other two woman looked at him in surprise - at speaking of all of it so openly to him, he assumed. Angharad fielded their looks with a slightly obstinate frown. “Or part of it. What we just did was a spell to reveal a thing’s true nature, and the result was clear, when you take my dream into account. This is one of the _Dagrau._ But we still don’t know what it does, or where the other two are. Only that they may be something Arawn wants, and that is why he’s attacking us, according to Achren. And I’m sure he’s not hoping to make rabbits,” she added scathingly in her sister’s direction. Eilwen rolled her eyes and shrugged.

Geraint winced. “Then Achren is here.”

“She was at the castle when I returned this evening,” Angharad said flatly, “and I’d rather not talk about it, to be honest. It wasn’t pleasant, and if you never meet her, count yourself fortunate enough.” She sighed, and squinted, rubbing her temples. “But it’s not a total loss. I don’t think we would have solved any of this without her information.”

“Does she know of this?” Geraint asked in alarm.

“No. Nor does my—,” Angharad paused, and turned a puzzled frown upon her aunt. “Why do you say Mother must not be told? It is not what you said before.”

Arianrhod looked gravely at the pendant, her face a mix of reverence and worry. “That was before I knew your dream...before we even suspected what we had.” She clasped the jewel against her chest, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Oh, my dears. We are at war, and war is not the domain of Rhiannon. She is life and love, birth and healing.” She shook her head. “I do not know the power or purpose of this jewel, but it is a gift from the goddess, and to use it as a weapon would be blasphemous, would twist its nature. It must not be used for such work, but...I know my sister,” she sighed. “Regat would seek a way to utilize its power in our current struggle. She cannot be allowed.”

Angharad twitched. “There is Achren, too,” she pointed out. “The more who know, the more opportunities she has to dig it out. Mother mayn’t have been lying when she told her we had no other power, but she wasn’t exactly honest either, and Achren suspected it.”

“Liars believe no one,” Geraint muttered an old bardic quip. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and when three pairs of raised eyebrows turned toward him he cleared his throat hastily, his ears growing hot. “Sorry. So...this thing is powerful, then. And you hope that the Fair Folk can explain it somehow?”

Angharad nodded. “They gave it to Mother at her wedding. She had it set in my pendant at my ascendancy — the crown heir always has something unique to mark her symbol, by tradition, but she apparently wasn’t aware of the significance, and still isn’t. But this is also, we think, the thing my grandfather was searching out, that got him banished. Why would they _give_ us something they’d accused him of trying to steal? After practically starting a war over it?” She paced, voice rising angrily, and he knew the questions were rhetorical, but they ate at him with a burning curiosity equal to her agitation.

“And we can’t just go _ask_ them about it!” she continued, almost shouting it. Arianrhod and Eilwen both held their hands up in calming gestures, as though there might be Tylwyth Teg hiding in nooks and crannies nearby to overhear and take offense. “We’re left with nothing but questions because they’ve arranged an agreement that forbids anyone from contacting them!”

“No it doesn’t,” Geraint reminded her, “it just forbids any of _you_.”

Angharad stopped short, glaring at him in consternation at being directly contradicted. “Well,” she sputtered, after a moment, “yes, all right. But it makes no difference for—,”

“I could go to them for you,” he interrupted quietly.

* * *

Silence. Angharad, after a second’s careless dismissal, froze as his words fell into a void, uncontested by anyone. Her mind attempted to wrap around them. She felt her own heart beat...once...twice...like slow, painful steps taken through ice water. Dread fell over her in a suffocating cloak. “No, you couldn’t,” she declared — too quickly, too decidedly to mask the fear behind the words. “Don’t be ridiculous; you...you aren’t...”

“I do not fear the gwyllion,” Geraint answered; he spoke as a man would to an unbroken colt, low and steady, and it frightened her even more, this solid, dispassionate reasoning. “I want no Fair Folk treasure, and I am no descendant of Llyr. They can accuse me of nothing.”

“They may try,” Arianrhod said unexpectedly.

Angharad whirled around to her, stunned at the implied agreement, in disbelief. What was happening? How was it even under consideration? “They will not. He’s not going. It’s not his affair. It’s nothing to _do_ with him,” she exclaimed, stepping in front of Geraint protectively.

Arianrhod hesitated, obviously unwilling to speak. Her voice caught and wavered, but she forced out the words. “It does seem a strange choice, yet... consider it, dearest. If there is anyone more qualified to act as your ambassador and also fulfill the terms of the agreement, I cannot imagine who. He seems to know most of the details of the matter. And certainly he has a personal interest - more so than any of our other allies, who are too far away to be of use for some time, even if it were possible to contact them, even if they are willing.”

Such plain terms, stark and practical; like a butcher’s diagram for carving up a heart. “You know it’s too dangerous,” Angharad gasped out. “He has no knowledge of how to deal with them.” Geraint’s hands closed over her arms; she felt his solid warmth at her back.

“I have as much experience with them as any of you,” he muttered, “which is none. But knowledge of them I do have, and the wit to match them, perhaps...at least to try.”

“And if you failed?” She twisted around to face him again, in anguish at his obstinacy. How could he stand here calmly arguing for his own potential doom? Not counting her grandfather’s fate, the gwyllion were said to devour unwary mortals: only one of many denizens of the Folk with a reputation more foul than fair.Even among those whose names were not feared, the truce between their realm and that of humans had always been an uneasy one, subject to the caprice of creatures to whom human standards of goodness and decency were alien. Suddenly she sympathized with her mother for shunning them and all their work.

“If you believe so much in all your stories, you know also what is said of them. Their distrust of us, and their senseless malice,” she burst out, gripping his shirt and nearly shaking him in her passion. “If you never return we will have gained _nothing_ , and I will never know—,” Angharad broke off, the words choking her, threatening to burst out into sobs. “I will not allow it,” she insisted, when her voice returned, forcing its way out with a vengeance. “You owe nothing to this land or its people to put yourself at such risk.”

He stood unmoving, and his eyes drowned her in heartbreak. “I would do it,” he whispered, “not for them, but for you.”

“You cannot,” she cried hoarsely. “These are matters for those who understand magic, who know our history, who can—,”

“Angharad,” he sighed.

 _“No.”_ She wielded the word like a lash, in sudden fury, pushing him away. _“I will not lose you to them.”_ She turned again to her family, commanding frantically, _“Tell him_. Tell him it it is madness.”

Eilwen and Arianrhod looked from her to him and back again, and glanced at each other; their expressions, grave and silent, spoke for them, in a shattering cacophony. No help from that quarter; only betrayal; for all their talk of love, now they would willingly make a sacrifice of him, of her own happiness. Fear and rage choked her, pulled themselves from her throat in a wordless, broken sound of despair; she tore away from them all and stumbled across the sand blindly, toward the water. Waves of blazing grief shook her and she tossed them to the sides, heedless, leaving a trail of incinerated sea grass smoldering in her wake until there was nothing left to burn.

The cold shock of seawater engulfing her feet made her gasp, but she pushed forward instinctively, without willing away the waves. The water was too yielding, too welcoming; she gathered up her passion like a net and flung it around her until the sea churned, the swells rising up in walls that threatened to topple toward her in a reckless, destructive collapse. Let them! Let them pound her to oblivion, along with everything else that had forsaken her. She screamed into the depths, drowning her pain beneath the roar of the water.

Geraint’s arms locked around her from behind; she struggled against them like a caged animal. A single gesture and she could have wound him in water and swept him away, but her anger broke within his grasp, shattered like foam against the cliffs, and she had no strength, in body or will, to effect more than a perfunctory resistance. He pulled her backward, fighting the sucking draw of the current, her name tumbling from his lips like a prayer, over and over, a ward against the thunder and crash of spray. Dimly she felt the movement and shape of magic that was not her own, and knew that Eilwen and Arianrhod had stepped into the water also, calming its fury, quelling its power; saving her, unbidden, from herself.

Geraint dragged her bodily to the solid ground and collapsed to his knees; she tumbled alongside, sand scraping ankles and knees as she fell against him, clutching blindly at his shirt, his shoulders, sobbing. He rocked her like a mother with an infant, arms secure, breathing broken things into her hair.

“I won’t go...if you can’t let me...I won’t. I won’t leave...I swear it...Angharad. We’ll find some other way.”

She shook, and shut her eyes, but the truth stared at her, even in the darkness. She had burned through her own defenses, her energy spent; she had nothing left to fend it off. _There is no other way._

None that served their need so well. Everything Arianrhod had said was true, more even than her aunt knew; he was as bound to her as her own breath, his presence in any place the closest thing to her own. If her gem indeed bore the essence of Rhiannon, no man had more right to discover its secrets than he who had awakened that same spirit within her. If someone must go to Pentre Gwyllion...and it could not be one of Llyr, lest they break faith with the Fair Folk...then it must be he.

Geraint would go, of his own volition. He would walk into peril, to creatures that could devour him if they pleased, or drag him into their realm in thrall forever.He would take her heart with him, and ifhe never returned, she would have to live without it, somehow.

She shivered and grew still, and cold, and silent, thinking. No heart. Nothing to break, when she had to stand and pledge herself to another man. Nothing to pain her, for whatever interminable time followed. It might be easier, really, to live without a heart.

Her mother had done it for years.


	25. Chapter 25

_I will always love you_

_Like the ocean_

_Loves the shoreline_

_In gentle wakes_

_In violent waves_

_In rising tides_

_From sinking moons_

_I will always love you_

_And though I may recede_

_I will always_

_Always_

_Come back to you._

_~Tyler Kent White_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Five

_“Why?”_

It was a raw whisper, one he barely heard above the rushing and sighing of the sea. Glassy wavelets lapped at his ankles, pulled at the filmy edges of her gown, twinkling, wherever they touched, with the same eerie green light that glowed at the crest of each breaker. Geraint watched it, mesmerized, and Angharad repeated the question.

“Why would you do this?”

She was shivering, and he was disturbed by how little heat was penetrating through her soaked garments. She had made no move away from the waterline, had spoken no word to dry either of them. He tightened his arms around her. “Because I am needed.”

“When I said I needed you,” she answered, in a voice as colorless as water, “this is not what I meant.”

It was impossible to explain the overwhelming burden of responsibility he felt. “I know,” he murmured, and pressed his lips to the crown of her head until liquid salt seeped into his mouth. _Never drink seawater, boy._ Memory swam into his mind: an old adage cracked from the craggy lips of a toothless old sailor he’d met in his youth. _No matter how thirsty ye’are. It’ll kill ye in the end._ He shook it off, and chafed her cold shoulder cupped in his hand. “You’re getting chilled. Come, we should get up and dry off.”

She didn’t move. “You promised,” she said, “to stay until I told you to leave.”

“And I will hold to that promise,” he assured her, after a pause. “I have no illusions of my own importance, save to you. I do not know that I was brought here to serve in the rescue of this island. If you cannot let me go, I will stay with you until it crumbles under our feet.”

A tremor passed through her, and a sound like a laugh seized and shaken inside-out into a groan. “So. My choice is to lose you now, or lose everything later. That is no choice.”

“There are a fair few people who might feel differently about that,” Geraint said, thinking of the faces he loved at Abernant. “You were willing enough to break the law for their sake, as your duty, to throw yourself on the mercy of the gwyllion and hope for the mere chance that you would survive it. Can you spare none of that hope for me?”

Angharad pushed at him and sat up, damp strands of her hair clinging to him like seaweed, but she did not look at him. “I could have borne whatever they did to me,” she answered thickly. “I cannot bear the thought of what they might do to you.”

The other women, after calming the tumult Angharad had wrought — a sight he had been too distracted to truly absorb, though a few vivid images had etched themselves into his mind — had maintained a small, respectful distance, standing in the shallows, watching in concern. Now Arianrhod stepped forward, with an air of gentle resolution. She knelt in the sand at Angharad’s other side and curled her hand around her niece’s head, cradling it against her shoulder. Over its top, her clear eyes caught Geraint’s in a gaze mingled of fierce approval and aching sadness. “Angharad,” she breathed, low and crooning, “Angharad, think, love. We would never send anyone, least of all him, if it were so hopeless. Of what use would that be?”

“They would have slain your father,” Angharad answered dully. Her shoulders were limp; she looked listless and distant, and made no answering gesture when Geraint squeezed her hand comfortingly.

“But they did not,” Arianrhod said, “because he bore the queen’s protection, and they honored it. It was not enough to save him from the law, but it was enough to save his life. How much more, he, who will have broken no law - by their own word, by their own agreement?” She looked at Geraint again, and his scalp prickled as she addressed him. “You may not know that you were brought here for this purpose. But _I_ know it, as I know the shape of all that is sacred, as much as it _can_ be known. Your fate is linked to ours, now — you, who are not of Llyr, and yet one of us, born not of our blood but of an even stronger bond.”

“Yet not one that will ever be recognized,” Geraint muttered. He could not wholly banish the resentment beneath the words, and for a moment he flinched at his own boldness. But though a spark of anger flared, for a heartbeat, within those clear eyes, he did not sense that it was directed at him.

“There are many grave injustices in the world,” the High Priestess admitted, without releasing him from her gaze, “and I would I could extend you any hope that this one could be rectified. Alas, I cannot. But it does not change the truth: you are woven and forged and shaped together with one another. Rhiannon has blessed this, and it is her will and her way we seek now, whatever our laws acknowledge.”

He blinked, embarrassed at the burning behind his eyes, and turned his attention back to Angharad, who was staring, expressionless, into nothing.

Eilwen moved toward them and crouched before her. For once, no smirk played at her mouth or danced in her eyes, and she spared Geraint not a glance as she took her sister by the shoulders and forced her to look in her in the face. “Come, Angharad,” she said, unwontedly serious, “anyone would think you weren’t an enchantress at all. Are we powerless, or have you forgotten? Won’t he have every protection we can place on him, every step of the journey as even as we can make it? He hasn’t trekked across all Prydain — which is no stroll through a daisy field, I hear — and survived being wrecked in a storm just to stagger into a fairy mound like an unwary fool. Chances are he’ll be back within a week, and then you’ll _still_ have to decide what to do with him.” At this, Angharad stirred, seeming to hear her at last, and Eilwen leaned back a little, with a twinkle of her familiar demeanor. “Not the worst trouble to have, I grant you. Now.” She raised her open hand between them. The pendant glinted upon her palm; the silver chain, dangling from its edge, glittered like bedewed spider silk. The glare Angharad cast upon the jewel said she did not know whether she loved or hated it, and she made no move to take it.

Eilwen looked at Arianrhod somberly. “Is it safe, do you think, to send it with him? Suppose the gwyllion take it back.”

Arianrhod shook her head. “We must send it with him, for we dare not bring it back to the castle while Achren is there, nor can we leave it here, unguarded. The Fair Folk take their gifts as seriously as they do everything else; I do not think they will claim it.” But she looked uneasy. “Even if they did, it would likely be safer in their hands than anywhere else. Their alliances with us may be…complicated, but they are no friends to Arawn. I am more concerned with what to tell Regat. But in any case, on such a mission, he must bear it. It will mark him as our emissary.”

Silence fell, as they all stared at the gem. Angharad seemed carved from stone, and Geraint was unnerved, watching her, but Arianrhod and Eilwen made no indication of impatience. It did not escape his notice that the women spoke of him as though he were not in their very midst, but he felt no resentment, only an odd sense of inevitability. It was as though they all waited for something, a turning of tide so natural and expected that it was pointless to spend undue energy either dreading it or hoping for it.

Finally, Angharad turned her pale face toward him and stared at him in silence for long moments,a silence that set him quailing at its emptiness. “I will not leave,” he repeated, low and hoarse, “until you order me to go.”

A spark of life flared in her eyes, or perhaps it was that unearthly green glitter in the water, reflecting in them; a feverish flush darkened her cheeks and she sat up straight, breathing as though in exertion, and turned her attention to the pendant, still held up before her like an offering.

Gathering it up with shaking hands, she turned back to him and reached around his head, fastening the chain behind his neck. “You…” she began, and choked on the word; she shut her eyes and leaned forward until her brow rested against his, took a breath, and spoke in a tremulous, ragged whisper. “You wear my emblem, Geraint of Gellau, and are under my protection. Whoever aids you shall receive favor, whoever harms you shall receive justice, and any wrongs perpetrated against you will be avenged.”

Her voice broke again, and his heart wrung itself; his hand cupped her cheek and cradled the back of her head, mingling the tears on her face with the water still clinging to her hair, and he remembered the legend of the death of King Llyr, the weeping of Rhiannon filling the sea. Perhaps it _was_ filled with the goddess’ tears, a whole ocean of them born of heartbreak and separation, and what made _this_ one so special, out of untold legions?

“I charge you with this task,” Angharad continued heavily, her hand resting on his chest, covering the jewel dangling there, “to bear my emblem to Pentre Gwyllion, and learn of the creatures who guard that place, if you can, why this thing of power was given us, to what end, what its powers are, and how we may protect it. Learn whether there is aught that can be done to save our people and our land from him who seeks it. I charge you to return to me, bearing whatever knowledge you have gained, and share it, whether good or ill. I charge you, above all else…” she repeated, quavering, taking his face in her hands, “to _return to me_.”

He covered her cold hands with his own. “I swear it,” he whispered, “all of it; if it is in my power it will be done, and nothing but death will keep me from you.”

A sob burst from her like a flood from a dam; her arms went around him and she buried her face in his neck. He crushed her to his chest, tried to memorize the weight and shape of her in his arms, and wondered how, not two months ago, he had never known it and yet thought his life complete. All his wanderings suddenly seemed aimless, even shiftless, a selfish indulgence of his own meandering curiosities and pleasures; he had lived only for himself, and now…

White-lipped, he clutched at the tangled mass of her salted hair, and struggled internally, trying to ignore a rising tide of self-accusations, a crippling sense of his own inadequacy. He had volunteered for this. He was suited for it. There was no one else. And though he would do it for her, it struck him, somehow: the will to do something needful, impactful, serving not only her but those faces in the village, and countless others like them spread over the face of this island. The fate of an entire island…

He shivered and shut his eyes, and bent his head until his lips touched Angharad’s shoulder, and drove away all other thoughts except the solid reality of her, seared upon all his senses.

The other two women, communicating with nothing more than sympathetic glances at one another, sat back on their heels, silently giving them breathing room. Geraint heard Arianrhod mutter a charm and was not surprised to find both Angharad and himself suddenly dry - a welcome relief, though she still shivered. “I will not pretend this task is without peril, Geraint of Gellau,” Arianrhod said quietly, “only that it is not without hope. But it is urgent, and you should go as soon as possible.” She glanced up the cove, toward his hut. “Have you any provision for travel?”

“Some,” he answered, thinking. “How long is the journey?”

“On foot,” said Eilwen, “two days overland. Loaning you a horse would cut it down, though.”

“He doesn’t need one,” Angharad mumbled into his shoulder. She raised her head and sat up. “His boat is rebuilt. He showed it to me, days ago.” Staring down at their clasped, white-knuckled hands, her face was drawn and pale, set in lines of numb resignation. “It’s less than a day to sail so far if conditions are good.”

“As they will be,” Arianrhod said, with a nod of approval, “for we will ensure it. That makes things all the easier.” She motioned out toward the water. “From this cove, you must sail east, and simply follow the land as it turns. Stray not too close to the coastline, for the southeastern shores are the areas most affected by the slides and quakes. A stone archway marks the boundary of the northeastern quarter. Once you are beyond it you must find a place to land and make your way to the highlands. There are no roads or paths in that forbidden place, but Pentre Gwyllion stands atop the highest point, and cannot be missed.”

“And…” Geraint faltered, stumbling over his first impulse to say _if_ , “…when I return? How shall I bring word of what I have found? Should I, after all, come to Caer Colur?” Something in him found it appealing: the prospect of having a legitimate reason to enter that fortress, her domain; to claim a right to be there, all caution and secrecy be damned at last. But Angharad was shaking her head.

“No,” she gasped. “You must not. I will come here every day. Or one of us will. Every day, to see whether you have returned.” He opened his mouth to argue the point, but she gripped his hands like iron, suddenly intense and commanding, her eyes flaming dangerously. “No. You _must not come_ to the castle.”

So spake the goddess. Geraint sighed in frustration, and she softened again. “It isn’t just Mother,” she whispered, “it’s Achren.”

He squeezed her hand, a quick gesture of understanding, but it rankled - not that he had any desire to be in Achren’s vicinity, but was she really more dangerous than the gwyllion? Perhaps best not to push fortune too far.

Arianrhod rose gracefully, and turned to face the sea, the wind from off the water tossing the dark strands of hair that had escaped her thick braids. She seemed to pull herself inward, as though listening intently to something beyond his range of hearing, and what she heard pleased her. “It is perfect,” she declared. “A strong southern current and wind, with nothing on the horizon…not until the evening, at least. Once around the southern horn you will barely need your oars but for steering. Nothing shall hinder you if you leave quickly.”

“Not before daylight,” Angharad gasped, but Arianrhod quelled her with a gentle motion of her slender hands.

“Of course not. But dawn is not far off. We will help him make ready.” She stepped away, moving toward the hut, and Eilwen, after a significant glance at both of them, stood and followed.

Geraint, feeling vaguely as though the entire night were a dream from which he might awaken in equal parts relief and disappointment, gathered his feet beneath him and rose, pulling Angharad up. She leaned against him heavily, head cradled against his shoulder. “I never thought,” she whispered, “that this day would end this way.”

For a moment he felt puzzled, and then realized she had not slept at all, and _this day_ was still, to her, the one that had begun with her dream, with the treaty, with her coming to the cove, and singing to him, and all else that they had said and shared. It seemed a lifetime ago — despite the wondrous vividness of certain moments. A painful, hot ache filled his throat. “Nor I,” he muttered, kissing her temple, and wrapping his arms around her with fierce protectiveness. “We have always known, I think, that I would have to go. But…”

“Not like this.”Her voice wavered. “Not to them. I should be going, not you.”

“No,” he whispered, “no. Listen to me, Angharad…” He took her face in his hands and made her look at him; that face, luminous as moonlight, eyes whose liquid gleam mirrored that great water that had birthed her ancestors, as full of their tears as her own; caught in the heartbreak of that face he cast about desperately for words worthy of it.

“Once…” he stammered, “…once…an ordinary man loved a Daughter of Llyr.” The tears spilled from her eyes like cut crystal and he caught them with his thumbs, swept them to the sides. “Loved her as he had never loved another, as he had never known he could…a tenderness, an affection, a passion that seemed greater and wider and deeper than the sea itself…so perhaps such a love could _only_ be inspired by one of the people the sea, a force so uncontainable, so untamable by any man.”

Another sob escaped her lips and he stopped until she regained control, bending his head until his brow rested upon hers again; her eyes closed and she listened, tense and trembling.

“Such was not surprising,” he continued fervently, “for no man with the privilege of looking upon her face could have helped being stricken with devotion. But to his astonishment…” he kissed her hairline, her forehead, the bridge of her nose…“She returned his love, unreservedly, against all law and propriety and reason, though he had nothing, though he _was_ nothing, and could never repay her kindnesses, or be worthy of her love, or be what she or her people needed.”

He felt her take a quick breath, and laid a finger over her lips to halt her protest. “Until one day, unexpectedly, miraculously, he found that he could be. And though the mere chance of his help was small recompense for all that she had done, had given him, it was all he had, and he must take it. He _must_ , or count himself no man at all, ever after.”

Her hand rested upon the pendant at his breastbone again, palm flat and pressing in; the cold metal grew warm and then hot, unnaturally hot. It burned like fire and ice against his skin; he clenched his teeth, and wondered if it were actually scarring him, and found that he hoped it would.

“I cannot tell you the rest of this story,” he gasped, over the pain, “for I do not know it. I know only that it is not ended.” He kissed her trembling lips, salt and sweet, and spoke the promise again upon her breath. “I swear to you it is not ended.”

Angharad returned his kiss as though by drinking enough of him in she could keep him there, and released him only when the furtive, quick breaths they managed to snatch at intervals were no longer sufficient. Her fingers trailed across his chest and he could not help a low hiss of discomfort; she lifted her hand in concern. “What is it?…oh!” For the silver crescent had shifted as he moved, and sure enough, beneath it the skin was branded, glowing the livid white and inflamed red of burned flesh. “ _Gods,_ ” she gasped, horrified. “Oh, Geraint. I didn’t mean to…”

“Shhh.” He grasped her wrist, pulling it away from the wound. “I am glad of it. Now I shall carry you with me always, and all who see it will know—,”

“That I am dangerous,” she interrupted bitterly, clenching her hand into a fist.

“That I am yours,” he answered, with a gentle shake of his head. “Didn’t I tell you the day we met? Many are the stories of Llyr and its rulers. Beauty…” He pressed his mouth against her knuckles until they loosened. “…And peril…” He kissed her palm. “…I have seen both, and I love both, and would not have one without the other.”

Her hand curled around his jaw possessively and her eyes changed, becoming thoughtful, then hard. “If they harm you,” she whispered, and he shivered at the undercurrent in her voice, “I will unearth the Tylwyth Teg realm from here to its farthest reaches, and rain fire and flood upon them until my last breath.”

From somewhere behind him, a throat cleared, and they turned to see Arianrhod standing a few feet away, looking a little alarmed. “Let us not borrow that kind of trouble,” she said firmly. “We are already at war with one formidable enemy. Come, Geraint. The hour grows near.”

Back at the hut, the other women had unearthed whatever of his provisions were suited for traveling, and packed them in a portable bundle, along with a spare cloak and other useful paraphernalia. He stammered out thanks, but Arianrhod waved him off with an indulgent, careworn smile. “I thought it better to leave the two of you in peace. Eilwen is attending to your boat.”

Geraint looked sideways at Angharad. “Attending?”

A wan version of her wry smile crossed her face. “It _is_ one of our specialties, you know.”

Mystified, he pulled on his jacket and boots and shouldered the pack as they left the hut. Pulling the door shut, he looked at it wistfully, at the neat thatch and his brick oven and the repaired places in the walls, and wondered if he would see it again.

Further down the beach his boat still lay bottom-up, the last coat of pitch having dried a few days before. Eilwen stood on its other side; her hands drifted over it and her mouth moved in silent words, and a strange tingling air current made the hair on his arms raise. The smell of burning sweet-grass hung over all, rich and cloying. The girl looked up as they approached, wearing her accustomed grin. “Fully charmed,” she announced “It’s a good repair job you did. But I made improvements.” She winked at him. “May your prow part the yielding waves like…an oiled seal,” she finished, catching Angharad’s dangerous glare, and cocking an amused eyebrow upwards at his obvious confusion. “Haven’t you ever told him how we came to rule all these ports? What _do_ you two find to talk about?”

“Far more interesting things than speed and agility charms on ships,” Angharad assured her dryly, “however luridly fascinating you make them sound.” She turned toward him, but her eyes wandered to the eastern sky, where a pale streak had appeared above the clifftops. Her face fell, and he heard her breath quicken anxiously. “Llyr,” she whispered. “I can’t do this, I —,”

Geraint took both her hands and she was silent, head bowed, eyes closed, her face twitching. They all waited, in the breathless stillness of dawn, the rumbling of the surf the only sound, as the sky lightened moment by moment. He could not remember ever dreading the sunrise before.

In the growing light the women’s luminance seemed to dim, become less ethereal; they looked pale and tired. Arianrhod moved to Angharad’s side and touched her shoulder gently. “When you are ready, love.”

Angharad swallowed. Her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping, the lids swollen, heavy with exhaustion. She stared at the upended boat with a blank, lost expression, the numbness of a grief that cannot yet believe in cold reality. Her mouth opened once…twice…upon silence; the third time, the words crept out, shivering and lifeless as wraiths from the grave. _“Launch it.”_

Flipped upright, the boat tipped to the side, its rounded bowl cumbersome in the sand, and Geraint wondered for a moment whether they would have the strength to help him carry it to the water. But Arianrhod flung her arm out toward the sea and then inland like the head of a war band calling a charge, and he leapt back in astonishment as an incoming wave hit the slope of the sand and then _kept coming_ ; the water rushed forward past the tideline and flooded the space around them, ankle-deep, knee-deep, thigh-deep.The boat rose and floated, and the women looked at him expectantly. He shook off his amazement, and tossed his pack inside, next to the waiting oars.

Angharad stood beside him, and he thought, suddenly, that they were not far from the place she had first met him in the water — always in the water; so of course, _of course_ he would say farewell to her in the same place, because that was how good stories always worked; you came back to your beginning and completed the circle. _No_. No, not completed, not yet. He took her in his arms one last time. “It is not ended,” he repeated — as much to himself as to her. 

She kissed him fiercely. “Then come back to me,” she ordered, “and tell me how it ends.”

The boat rocked wildly as he scrambled in but stabilized quickly - too quickly, too easily; he sat and reached for the oars and the women stepped back, Arianrhod raising her arms. “You go with our blessing, Geraint of Gellau, and our gratitude. May Llyr protect you, and grant you good journey.” She called out in a strange tongue; her hands swept gracefully in the air and suddenly the boat seemed to gather itself up; with no help from him. The rogue wave they had called in and held now retreated, swept him back, back past the breakers and into the swells with his prow toward the open sea, caught in an invisible current.

Geraint yelped in surprise, the momentum nearly toppling him from his seat; he gripped the sides and watched helplessly as he was carried away from the shallows and the three pale figures that stood there. He saw Angharad stumble forward and the other two catch her by the arms and hold her, but he was already too far to hear anything they spoke, and in another moment he would be unable to make out her face.

The rising sun crested the clifftops and shafted its light into the cove, illuminating the three. Angharad’s bright hair flared in it like the star on a beacon. He watched it blaze, smaller and smaller, until it was swallowed up in haze, until the cove and the cliffs and the sand melded together into one dark mass, and the island stretched to either side before him, waiting.

He touched the crescent moon lying cold and smooth at his chest, and took up his oars.


	26. Chapter 26

_And_

_In the end_

_All I learned_

_Was how_

_To be strong_

_Alone_

_~ d.j._

* * *

Chapter Twenty Six

“Your Majesty.”

Quiet words, spoken like the gentle nudge of an elbow; they brought a long meditation to an abrupt end. Regat turned from the window she’d been gazing from and nodded to her Chief Steward. He laid an armful of documents before her upon the table. “As you requested.”

“Thank you, Caradoc.” She ran her elegant hand over the yellowed vellum. “Nothing was disturbed?”

“Nothing, milady. It was well-secreted, exactly where you said it would be. Even I had no idea. I thought it all destroyed.” He looked curiously at the cryptic symbols scrawled across the page. “What prompted you to preserve your father’s notes?”

“It was Mother’s idea,” Regat said dispassionately. “I wanted to burn them.”

“What do you hope to find?”

“I hope for nothing,” she sniffed, “only remembered, in my meditations, that he had been following a rumor. I daresay it was all nonsense. But these days, no stone should be left unturned.” But she pushed the pile to the side, lost it in a heap of several other documents, as though it were unimportant as yet. “More urgently, I understand we have a guest.”

“Indeed. One hopeful enchanter, a Lord Grimgower.” Caradoc cleared his throat. “Do you suppose he named himself that?”

The queen made a sound that might have been called, in anyone else, a derisive snort. “No doubt he did. Ridiculous. What sort of prospect?”

Caradoc looked cautiously amused. “A bit older than one might hope, and…rather dour. He came with a small retinue, a sun-starved lot, I thought. They wear only black. I saw nothing likely to appeal to the princess, but perhaps he will surprise us.”

“Perhaps,” said Regat dryly. “Well, we can hope he is only the first of many choices. We have a few more weeks. See that he is made comfortable. I suppose there is nowhere to put him that will be entirely free of gossip about the current trouble. It will be alleviated shortly, I hope.”

“Shall I arrange a meeting with the princess?”

“Good Llyr. Our hospitality is reward enough for his eagerness. No need to overdo it.”

Caradoc swallowed a smile, and bowed as she waved him a silent dismissal. Regat waited until the door had shut behind him, and turned back to the table with a sigh. She stared at the documents laid upon it, angry at the contradictory urges she felt to throw them instantly onto the hearth, or to lay her head upon them and weep at the sight of her father’s familiar hand, unseen for decades. The former was emotional outburst. The latter was sentiment.

Regat, daughter of Mererid, Queen of Llyr, was a woman given to neither.

Calm and collected dignity was a skill trained into all those of her line, of course. A queen could not afford instability or even the appearance of it in public — not when neighboring kingdoms, some distrustful, some hostile to matriarchy on principle, might take it as a sign of weakness. Moreover, the innate ability to set any flammable object in the near vicinity ablaze at a flick of the wrist was not one suited to a lack of self-control. Thus, the education of a Daughter of Llyr began early, with nursemaids who did not reward tears with kisses, with governesses who allowed no excuses of fatigue for work done carelessly or left unfinished, with mothers who plied the shoulders of their slender, steel-souled daughters with the burdens that had been passed down, with equal weight, by their own.

 _Stand up straight. Head up. Do not laugh. Do not cry. Betray neither anger nor shock nor excitement. A clever foe could exploit them; you cannot think clearly in fury_ or _joy._ _Breathe, do what must be done, and save the feelings for later._

She had gotten very good at that, at the saving for later, so good that eventually, later had often ceased to come at all. But then she had always been adept, even in her childhood, praised for her critical detachment and penchant for pointing out logical inconsistencies in a sentimental bedtime tale while her sister was scolded for crying over it. Arianrhod felt enough for both of them, it seemed; had been, since birth, suited for her destined authority in the grove — a place where the affairs of the heart that so affected her could have free rein. It was well for the state that fate had dictated their birth order as it had.

She wondered what fate had been thinking when her own daughters were born.

Oh, Eilwen was suited enough for her place. Too well, in fact; Regat was painfully aware of the amusement that already circulated within the court regarding her secondborn, widely rumored to be a virtual incarnation of the more sensual aspects of the goddess since the day, as an uncommonly well-developed twelve-year-old, she had winked and blown a kiss at a strappingyoung acolyte serving in her own initiation ceremony. Acknowledging the rumors would only validate their existence; Regat ignored them, and kept Eilwen out of court as much as possible. She had no great hope that time would steady her; not when everything in her environment would only serve to encourage her curiosity and appetites. Marriage might cure her, if her husband survived her enthusiasm…or it might not. But at least she did bloom where she was planted, as the old adage went.

Which was more than could be said for Angharad.

Angharad. _Much loved._ Her father had named her, and Regat had allowed this break of tradition from a niggling sense of obligation; he might as well get _some_ satisfaction out of his thankless position. Not that Owen had been deceived about where he would stand; his gifting was such that it would have been nearly impossible to deceive him, even had that been her intention. He had been well aware that she had nothing to give him beyond a comfortable life, the meeting of his needs — even, in her best moments, something approaching companionship. But perhaps he had hoped, after all; the name he had chosen had felt a little like a reproach he had not the heart to speak to her face. A hope that his daughter would be much loved, though he was not.

And Angharad _was_ — she was doted upon not only by her father, but by extended family, by the servants, even by visiting ambassadors from their allies, whose exclamations over the infant’s shock of flaming hair had struck her mother as irritatingly triumphant and self-congratulatory, as though they’d just been _waiting_ for that ancient blood connection to reveal itself after lying dormant so long. _Belin-blessed_ , they had called her; and Regat had smiled politely, and folded away the tiny garments with their embroidered golden sunburst crests after they had gone.

Perhaps that had been the trouble; Angharad had been too coddled, made too much of, thanks to that once-in-a-century scarlet-gold crown. She’d been no more nor less precocious or strong-willed than most of her ancestry, but was humored more, had allowances made for her fiery temperament because _well, what do you expect? It comes with that hair._ It was nonsense, an unhealthy indulgence that had only grown worse after Owen’s death, when her wide-eyed confusion and continual demands for him had been met with such smothering sympathy. In the end, only Regat had taught her the necessary restraint, regretfully suppressing most demonstrations of maternal affection for the sake of objectivity, that nothing would distract from the responsibility of grooming her own successor. It was a fine irony that she would not be present to see whether she’d been successful at it. But such was the way of things.

Nineteen years of training could not fail to mold Angharad to some extent. She was dutiful, and willing, as a falcon might be willing to fold its wings and march like a soldier, because it was told it must. But it had not quelled that dangerous streak of passion that simmered beneath the surface, and had resigned her but little to the restrictions of her position — just how little had only recently become apparent. Under the very circumstances wherein a steady hand and rational leadership were most necessary, Angharad’s self-control had slivered, in hairline cracks, until Regat wondered just how fragile it was, and whether the last few years of apparent progress and maturity were only a mask, an opaque curtain that hid a barely-contained bonfire. It was a concern that warranted careful consideration, but she had none to spare it just now, not with a kingdom crumbling around them.

It had been a relief to give the girl something to _do_ that would get her out of the castle, a thing she was wont to crave. Regat did not share Arianrhod’s unshakeable faith in the rituals of Rhiannon, but an ever-burning altar fire did no harm, even if its only use was to give the people hope that someone was listening. Angharad had seemed better for the exercise, if a little too apt to let her other responsibilities suffer for it. Torn between allowing her daughter what freedom she could and the guilt inherent in making plans that involved her without her knowledge, the queen had let it go on. Too long, really — as testified by the girl’s day-long absence and careless appearance two nights ago. And yet she could not wholly regret it. Despite the revealed flaws in her self-possession, from a practical standpoint Angharad had proven herself capable since the trouble had begun. Her reaction to the announcement of her marriage had been extreme, but she had rallied. Her insight into the situation at Abegwy had been sound, her handling of the evacuation plans efficient and excellent. And though obviously shaken, she had been admirably shrewd and assertive when confronting Achren’s manipulation on the tower.

The queen frowned. Achren was another matter entirely; she did not regret the decision to bring her to Caer Colur so much as she regretted the necessity of it. Nothing about the woman herself had surprised her unduly, but her information certainly had. It needed examining, all of it, and consultation with those privy to it — a consultation she had postponed a day, for Angharad had been absent from court the morning after Achren’s revelations, pleading a sick headache that had kept her in bed until supper, when she had emerged as white as bleached linen and almost as silent. Arianrhod had looked none too robust, for that matter. Regat, herself sensitive to the lingering effects of Achren’s magic in the tightness of her temples and the ringing in her ears, had decided it could wait until they had all recovered a bit more, and ordered an audience in her chambers on the following day. It was now imminent.

She reached for the vellum pages again just as a knock upon the door intruded into the silence. Hurriedly she pushed them back, tucking them beneath several other unrelated documents. Perhaps secrecy of this particular matter was unnecessary, but…well, she would know better when she had had the chance to investigate it further. In any case she was in no mood to discuss it with Arianrhod, who would recognize the writing if she saw it.

Her sister and her daughter entered upon being bidden, and Regat motioned for them to approach and sit. Arianrhod looked as well as she ever looked, these days; Angharad seemed less likely to collapse at any moment but was still a shadow of herself, and Regat examined her keenly. “Are you still suffering, daughter? Achren seems to affect you most gravely. It was a disturbing meeting, to be sure.”

Angharad’s glance flitted to meet hers and then jumped away like a frightened bird. “No,” she said. “It must have been more than Achren; some illness or other, made worse by her presence, perhaps. I am better today, only…fatigued.” She shrugged, rather limply. “I beg your pardon for missing court yesterday.”

“You missed nothing important,” said Regat, “except the first report from the evacuation of Abegwy. The people have successfully made camp, and already there have been significant recoveries. So, your vision was sound - it was well done.”The girl’s face brightened for a moment and then dimmed, as though she wanted to be pleased but did not quite have the energy for it. Next to her, Arianrhod reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Now,” Regat continued, “as troubling as it is, Achren’s information bears discussion, and I have decisions to make. I am not convinced that she spoke the truth about Arawn seeking some power on this island. It is just as plausible that she sought to have us reveal something that she herself could exploit.”

“Either way,” Angharad said slowly, “it means she believes we have something.”

“Indeed. And I am investigating every possibility.” The queen hesitated at the burning glance her sister turned upon her. Arianrhod often kept her peace during such councils, but her face spoke volumes, and Regat needed no clairvoyance to know what she was thinking now. She had no intention of bringing up _that_ topic at present. “There are not many, to my knowledge.I have scribes searching through the archives for clues, and if any bear pursuing, we will do so. Meanwhile,” she went on, “regardless of Arawn’s motivations, his actions are my chief concern. I believe it to be imperative that we use what powers _are_ at our disposal, without delay. There was a tremor yesterday less than ten leagues away - no one hurt; just reports from a shepherd in the area. Still, it grows too close for comfort. There is too much at stake just now, with important guests arriving, and more expected.”

Angharad looked blank. “Guests?”

“Your suitors,” Regat reminded her, silently cursing the poor timing. It could not be helped. “One has come, and I expect others will trickle in over the course of the next few weeks.”

She would not have thought it possible for Angharad to grow any paler, but somehow the girl managed it. “Oh,” was all she said, a ghost of a word, dead before it left her lips. Regat wrestled down a temptation to be exasperated. She was self-aware enough to realize it sprang from her own resentment over having no choice but to enforce her daughter’s unhappiness.

“I know your reticence,” she managed gently, “and you know my sympathies. But when it comes time to make your choice, I implore you to remember our present needs. It is to be hoped that at least one among them will have enough power to aid us in this fight.”

Crimson flooded Angharad’s face. “I see,” the girl muttered. “So I am to pick the most powerful, regardless of any other qualities, is that it? Suppose none of them have any power of note?” She met her mother’s gaze squarely, eyes flashing. “If no enchanters infamous enough to please you find me a prize worth their trouble, am I allowed to refuse all those who have dared above their station?”

There it was. That chink in the facade, that fire barely held in check. Regat did not know what disturbed her more - that it existed, or how close it came to tearing through her own carefully-maintained self-discipline. “We will consider that if the time comes,” she answered, with practiced, if strained, calm, wrestling down the sharp words that wanted to break through instead. “Let us hope it will not be necessary.”

Arianrhod’s hand upon Angharad’s held her eye, and her chest tightened. The affectionate bond between aunt and niece was something she both appreciated and resented; it was good for Angharad, no doubt, to have such a presence in her life. But just now, that simple gesture seemed like a silent solidarity of rebellion, a demonstration of the comfort and sympathy that she herself did not dare to give her own daughter, lest it weaken her resolve. Regat rose and turned away so that she need not see it; she paced the room to bring her thoughts back to the matter at hand.

“In any case,” she said, “I intend to make use of Achren’s willingness to check the attacks. For a time, at least.”

There was a thick and uncomfortable silence behind her. Finally Arianrhod broke it. “And what of her terms?”

Regat shook her head. “You mean her ‘seat at the table’ nonsense? We have no evidence of the verity of her claim. I see no reason to forgo the chance of stability now for fear of an unknown future.”

“I don’t like it,” said Angharad stubbornly. “Whether it’s true or not, _she_ believes it, or she wouldn’t have come. And she doesn’t seem the sort to forget or forgive such a debt. Who knows what we’ll be sentencing ourselves to? Or our descendants?”

Regat bristled a little, turning to regard them both. “It is impossible to predict any such outcome,” she pointed out. “What _is_ predictable is this island’s destruction if we do _not_ make use of her, in which case we may find ourselves invading our neighbors whether we will or no —assuming anyone survives it.” She crossed to the opposite window and pushed the casement open. “I will not take that road. Not if there is a chance of avoiding it. But if either of you has a better idea, I will entertain it.”

No one spoke, and Regat sighed, staring from the window as though there might be a solution written upon the landscape. A warm wind, its movement invited by the second open window, suddenly threaded itself through the chamber, sweeping across the document-strewn table, tossing multiple pages into the air like a mischievous sprite. Angharad and Arianrhod exclaimed in dismay and jumped up to rescue them; Regat, with an oath, pulled the shutter to and hurried back, swiping at loose pages as they fluttered to the floor and gathering them into a disorganized pile. Noting that Angharad was examining her own catch with some interest, she reached over and snatched them away, burying them at the bottom and slamming the entire stack to the table. Both the others looked at her in surprise, a mirror of her own. Flustered, she turned away again, just in time to jump at another knock on the door.

Bade enter, a page boy stood in the doorway. He was unfamiliar to her, and looked as though he would rather be anywhere else, but Regat was accustomed to seeing this from her pages, whose universal attitude of uncomfortable awe she had never had the patience or inclination to dispel. The boy held a large wooden bowl in one arm; in the other he carried a pail full of gravel and soil. “Upon your orders, Majesty,” he bleated, his eyes carefully downturned. The queen had a momentary reminder that the rules of eye contact often resulted in new staff’s appearing to stare places more offensive than her eyes, and was struck by a sudden, irrational desire to laugh. _Belin_ , she needed rest — that was clear; they all did. When this trouble was over, if it ever was, she’d spend a month on tour of some remote outlying territory, leave Caradoc in charge and take the girls on holiday. She ought to have done it more when they were children. 

A perfunctory look over the items was enough. “That will do,” she told him. “Take it to the cabinet and leave it beside the door.” He bowed and scurried away without even the customary acknowledgements; certainly a new one, nervous as a mouse.

Arianrhod and Angharad were both seated again when she turned back to the table. Angharad looked flushed and agitated, but this was, at least, an improvement over her pale apathy. “What was that about?” the girl asked, nodding toward the door and the departing messenger.

“Implements for the work tonight,” Regat said shortly. “It is what she requested. We will need to be there again, all three. She has abided by her boundaries, so far, but we must never let our guard down with her. Besides, we should all observe her methods.”

The other two exchanged uneasy glances. “I’m not sure I want to know her methods,” Angharad remarked. “But I don’t suppose even Achren can do too many terrible things with buckets of dirt. Mother, I…” she hesitated, and twisted her hands upon the tabletop. “I’ve had another dream.”

Regat caught Arianrhod’s surprised look, and stepped forward to sit down once more. “And?”

“There was…a ring of stones. Standing stones, and a green mound in the center.”

The queen’s hand quivered upon the table, and she moved it into her lap. “Go on.”

Angharad kept her eyes turned down as if in thought. “I was standing outside it. And somehow I thought…I don’t know why I thought…that there was something in it I wanted. Though I did not know what it was. And yet I feared to go inside it. It was a forbidding sort of place.” She was silent a moment, then took a breath. “But finally, for the sake of whatever it was I thought was there, I stepped through, between the stones.”

Regat realized, all at once, that she was holding her breath, and let it out in a slow, silent exhale. “And what happened?”

Angharad met her eyes, then, and she nearly winced before that striking green gaze. Owen’s eyes, accusatory, unresigned, defiant. “Nothing happened,” she said. “There was nothing there at all. I knew it as soon as I stepped over, and then…then I could not step out. I was trapped.”

The queen gripped her thick skirt beneath the table. “And was this all?”

The green gaze wavered, pulled itself to the open window. “No. Then the stones crumbled, and the earth shook, and it collapsed beneath my feet, and the sea came rushing in overall. I woke up screaming.”

Silence. Breathing. A gull screamed outside the window, startling them. Arianrhod looked from Angharad to Regat in consternation. “This is a warning.”

Regat shook her head almost imperceptibly to silence her. “Perhaps. You know better than I that such things are not so easily interpreted.” Though it could hardly have been clearer, she thought, in mingled relief and disquiet. The timing was almost too apt, the message too obvious, and she was tempted to distrust it on such grounds alone. Still, Angharad’s dreams had always been particularly revelatory, and even more so of late.

“Is there anything else we must discuss, Mother?” Angharad was staring at her, her expression guarded and unreadable.

Regat raised an eyebrow. “Are you in earnest to leave?”

The princess shrugged. “I spent all day yesterday in bed or having my hair washed. I’d like to get out a little, before this evening. Since it seems my freedom grows short very quickly.”

The queen elected to ignore the acerbity in the last observation. No doubt it _would_ do her good to ride out, and she would need whatever emotional reserves she could muster tonight. “Very well. Meet us at moonrise on the tower.”

Angharad rose slowly, as though she did not quite trust her own balance. Regat, watching her, was struck with a sudden realization of something awry. “Angharad. What happened to your pendant?”

The girl seemed to freeze for a moment, as wary as a cornered cat, and her hand flew automatically to the silver crescent at her throat — the unadorned one she had not worn in years. “I…last time I was at the cove, it…” She paused, took a breath, swallowed, and when she spoke again her voice held the wavering note of someone making an effort to be calm. “It caught in the rocks while I was climbing, and the gem was broken off. I…took it to a jeweler, and it’s being repaired. I thought it best to wear my old one in the meantime.”

Mystified at her manner, Regat waved a hand dismissively. “I see. Well…accidents happen. Thank Llyr that gem wasn’t lost. It was a gift, you know.”

Angharad’s eyes flicked quickly to Arianrhod and then away, as though she hadn’t meant to look. “Oh. Was it?”

“From the Fair Folk.” Regat frowned suddenly, thinking. “At my wedding. We shall have to invite them to yours, of course, or risk offending them. _Belin_. Yet another thing to…” she broke off, and shook her head. “Never mind. Still time for that. Go — get some air, and rest, too, before tonight.”

Angharad curtsied, and hurried from the room as though pursued. Arianrhod, her bearing unusually tense, watched her go, and sat silently for a few more moments, as though lost in thought. “Regat,” she said slowly, “her dream…”

“I will take it into account,” Regat said shortly. “I had thought of Pentre Gwyllion, of course, as soon as Achren brought up the idea of an unknown power on the island. But it seems we are warned away from that path. If the gwyllion are affected by the attacks, they’ll manage it their own way; we have enough trouble without inviting their wrath again. I’d like to _see_ Arawn take on the Folk, for that matter. Eiddileg wouldn’t have his nonsense for a moment.”

Arianrhod visibly relaxed at the note of dry humor in her voice. “Perhaps we should be currying his favor more than we have done, then.”

Regat shrugged wearily. “He doesn’t care. He won’t risk Folk lives on behalf of humans, and I can’t blame him for it, after what was done to them. Perhaps if we asked outright for help — but you know their help always comes at a steep price.”

“Steeper than Achren’s?” Her sister raised an eyebrow.

A chill prickled at her scalp, down her spine; Regat saw, unwillingly, the proud, icy stare, those crimson lips speaking boldly into an unformed future as though the words themselves could shape it and bring it into being. She had a fleeting sensation, suddenly, of invisible strands, wrapping with the silky stealth of spider-laces, threading around her, around her family, through the stone, the ground, loose and innocuous, ready to be drawn shut the moment they…

No. She had made every possible precaution, and would not stand by and let fear keep her from taking necessary actions. The future held whatever it held. In the present, the kingdom must be protected, and let it never be said that she had not done all she could to do so. “Perhaps not steeper,” she admitted. “But Achren’s, at least, we know and understand. Now. I have things to look over before tonight.”

Arianrhod took the hint, and rose. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Regat pulled a stack of papers over with a sigh. “If you can convince Angharad to spend some time in the grove, do something to strengthen her up, will you? She held up well before Achren, but her condition since then concerns me.”

Arianrhod paused, standing beside her. “She is doing the best she can, you know, sister.”

The queen stared at a corner of parchment peeking from beneath the bottom of the pile near her right hand, smeared with the inky thumbprint of the father she had looked in the eyes while she pronounced his judgement.

“So am I,” she whispered, covering the print with her own thumb.

Arianrhod bent and kissed her. “I know.” She pressed her shoulder once, and ushered herself quietly from the room.

Regat pulled the parchment from the stack and looked at the scrawling symbols, the notes and sketches, guesses and musings that had led to such ruin. She closed her eyes and tried to recall his face: a blue-black sweep of thick hair over a high forehead, expressive brows, strong chin. Dark eyes that had so often beamed with amusement as they traded sarcastic barbs of wit over a game of tawlbyrdd; the straight, understated smile as he watched her outwit a sparring opponent; the handsome head high with pride as she cut through a complex court case with ruthless precision and handed down a verdict with which even their fussiest counsellors could find no fault. That same face, in that same court, haggard, distorted with guilty, furious desperation, mutely begging her for forgiveness as she numbly watched him being led away, in the midst of the furor of her mother’s silent tears, her sister’s wild sobs, and the howls of a disbelieving, horrified audience.

 _No._ She opened her eyes with a gasp. Smoke was curling in a thin stream from the parchment beneath her fingertip and she pounded her palm over it, snuffing it out. She cradled her forehead in her hand, fought back until the thudding of her heart, the pull at her ribs, the ache at her throat slowly died away, slipped formless behind a grey, weary void, until she felt…

Nothing.

No sadness. No anger. No regret.

_Nothing._

It was all she could allow.


	27. Chapter 27

_They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die._

_I’ll wink and couch; no man their works must eye._

~William Shakespeare

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Prydain was over there, somewhere to the east. He knew that.

But Llyr’s vast-by-comparison neighbor was so far as to be invisible, save for the faint bluish mass of Mona that rose to his rightacross the water, and for all intents of imagination that endless shifting mass of ocean might go on forever, to the very edge…an edge, just now, where earth met sky in an incandescent conjunction of water and fire.

Geraint stood spellbound, face fixed upon the horizon. He had seen many sunrises in all his wanderings. But never had he witnessed a sunrise birthed from the sea, and it filled him with such awe that he could not tear his gaze away.

Awakened, chilly and damp, as the sky had begun to grow pale at its edge, he had risen up stiffly and taken a few breaths to clear his mind, muddled from the exhaustion of the previous day and the discomfort of the night. But within a few minutes his thoughts had been silenced, quelled beneath a growing awareness of what his vantage point was revealing. Above him, the heavens were lightening into a vast overturned bowl of color: cobalt, turquoise, rose, and gold bleeding one into another, broken by banks of dark violet cloud. At their feet, the sea breathed like a slumbering dragon, a muted mirror of the sky, crossed by undulating black stripes and laced with pearly webbing.

He stared, heart pounding strangely. It kept _changing,_ moment by moment, never the same from one heartbeat to the next; the light and the color and the drifting cloud, gathering into an anticipatory glow at its center. The first brilliant edge of the sun unfurled like a banner over the rim of the water, scattering ribbons of scintillating light in a beckoning path upon its surface. The fire swept higher, became a searing white-gold and crimson sphere, setting the edge of every cloud ablaze. He could no longer look directly at it: fire and water wed, such unfathomable beauty wrought from their union that his breath seemed to swell to something his body could not contain; he wanted to soar, like a gull, into the very heart of that all-consuming radiance.

A warm wind moved, ceaseless, from the midst of the sunrise through the coarse sea-grass surrounding his rough shelter, lifting his hair, whispering _Angharad_ into his mind. His hands clenched painfully into the clumps of vegetation at his knees. He ached with wanting her next to him, to witness it with him, this swirl of elements that was the very core of her being; no wonder she held him in such thrall. Every shifting color and mood of the scene before him had its incarnation in her; to love her was to hold that magic of light and liquid in his arms and crave both the burning and the drowning it would bring. The crescent of raw flesh at his chest flamed painfully; he pressed the cold metal of the pendant against it and set his teeth, welcoming the sting. _This,_ he thought, blinking at the flaming circle, his eyes watering, _is why I am here._

With new resolve, Geraint rose to his feet again, taking in his surroundings. The grassy hollow among the sea cliffs that had provided his shelter had been the limit of his travels the previous evening. The journey around the island had been as smooth as Arianrhod had promised, and he had docked without incident before dark. But his attempts to delve inland, to find paths among the cliff faces, had proven frustrating. Every promising gap he followed eventually ended in impassible stone; then night had fallen, too early, somehow, and with it had come other things. Strange sounds, of whose first furtive echoes he had taken no notice, had gradually become loud enough to make him pause and look about in consternation, wondering if he’d really heard them. Eventually he had not needed to wonder; hair-raising howls and gibbering cries rang out, without warning or consistency of direction, every few minutes. Setting foot into one likely-looking cleft had resulted in a bloodcurdling shriek rising from behind a boulder at his very elbow, sending a shock of terror down his spine. He had sprung away instinctively, and nearly tumbled from a sheer drop at his other side.

That was enough. It was a common occurrence, in their legends, for the gwyllion’s unearthly screeching to drive unwary travelers to their deaths. Though it both intrigued him to have proof of their presence and sparked his anger to be made into such sport, a tumble from the cliffs would put a swift and wasteful end to his quest. Waiting for daylight to continue the journey made sense from more than one angle. He had found a hollow out of the wind to bed down, and was grateful when the source of the eerie noises, perhaps nonplussed by his lack of activity, must have moved on to seek a more lively target. Exhaustion had claimed him, but his sleep was troubled, and filled with strange dreams that left him with no memory of their details, only their sense of disquiet.

Now, in the daylight illuminating the cliff faces, he could see through the cleft he’d been driven away from. Smooth hills rolled behind it, humps of emerald velvet with gray boulders cutting through here and there like crumbling teeth, oddly vertical and top-heavy, in formations that did not quite look natural or even, in some cases, physically possible. The noises of the night still echoed in his mind, and the setting brought the hair on his neck to prickling attention. Treaty or no treaty, small wonder this area was forbidden.

He rummaged in his pack for breakfast and his hand encountered something cold and hard; he pulled out a small iron dagger and mulled it over thoughtfully while he ate, slipping it into his pocket instead of returning it to the satchel. Arianrhod or Eilwen must have included it; cold iron was a ward against faery mischief, as was salt - with which his own hair and skin were coated, thanks to yesterday’s journey. No harm in such precautions.

Half-expecting the strange sounds to start again the moment he began traveling, he eased from his hollow with reasonable caution, but no cries rang out as his feet found their way among the waving saltgrass, except that of the gulls and waterbirds calling to each other from their morning rounds. The noise of the surf faded as he wound between the cliffs, and his frustrations of the day before melted away as the view opened before him. At last, he had found a way into the highlands.

Ahead, the hills stacked one upon another, rising up several leagues inland, backed by one that towered over the rest, its green slopes glowing in the early light. It was too far to see what crowned its top, but he set his feet toward it with a thrill of mingled fear and anticipation, trusting in the word of his guides.

There was no path, and only a few stunted and twisted trees. He picked his way through prickly patches of gorse and thistle as he descended into the hollows west of the cliffs. At the lowest point his feet squelched through marshy patches, reeking of mud and thick with moss, and he kept to the stony places wherever possible until the ground sloped up once more. White toadstools sprouted like whiskers in the shadows of boulders, and spread in concentric rings over damp areas of ground. Hidden hollows opened before him, filled with the cool haze of bluebells. He gave all a wide berth, and palmed the knife in his pocket.

It was during his descent into the next valley that he felt it, or heard it - he could not tell which, and perhaps there was no difference: a tremor, rumbling as thunder caught beneath the earth, rippling beneath his feet and vibrating into his legs and chest. He froze mid-step as the ground trembled, held his breath. From some immeasurable distance there was a crack like the blow of a stone axe…another, and then another. The sounds split the air and rang in his ears, and he crouched low on instinct. Pebbles dislodged themselves from the slope and bounced toward the valley, clacking and scurrying like frightened animals. He turned unsteadily to see whether he was in the path of anything large enough to pose a danger, just as a patch of earth not twenty yards away suddenly broke loose and became fluid, roaring into the valley like a brown river. He clung helplessly to the grass at his heels and waited, heart pounding, expecting any moment that the ground under his own feet would give way.

It held. The tremor ceased, dying away as suddenly as it had begun, but Geraint sat motionless for long minutes, as though the slightest move on his part might trigger another. He stared at the bare ground the slide had left behind, and realized, as his eyes traveled further, that there was evidence of similar destruction all along the ridge, brown streaks by the dozens marring the green slopes, broken dry brush and piles of boulders tumbled at their lowest point. He shuddered, suddenly realizing how precarious his nighttime perch upon the cliffs had been, took a few breaths to steady himself, and stood up again. Clearly, there was no time to waste in fear and doubt.

The towering hill was close enough now that he could make out the faint outlines of something at its crest, grey shapes a little more solid than the backdrop of clouds that were gathering in the west. In another hour he was certain of it; standing stones in a grim ring crowned the highest point, jabbing at the sky like accusing fingers. He tried to count them thrice, got a different total every time, and gave it up. Another ridge, and another, slid away beneath his feet, until he was at the foot of the peak.

He looked toward the top with a growing sense of dread. His sense of time felt somewhat off, and the sky was now blanketed in a gray that gave him no clear idea of the location of the sun - still, it could not be more than mid-afternoon, as early as he had started. Yet he felt weighted with sudden exhaustion, as though it were nearing midnight, and he should have gone to bed hours ago. He shook it off, pulling his feet up the slope. Its steepness demanded a meandering diagonal route, crossing to the north and then to the south, over and over. The clouds overhead grew thick and dark. Thunder grumbled within them and he frowned, uneasy at his exposure upon the bare hillside. More than once he passed dark openings between boulders, openings that might have been the mouths of shallow caves, promising shelter should a storm break. He passed them by hurriedly, and tried to ignore the thought that something within them was watching him.

It did not rain. His feet dragged as he reached the top of the hill, every step weighted as though he pulled them through mire. He wondered if he’d have less trouble if he were an enchanter, or…more of it. Had the queen’s father experienced such barriers? The man had been that determined, without even knowing exactly what he sought…but perhaps he had had other forces at his disposal, more potent than a bit of iron and salt. Not that any had saved him in the end.

Cresting the summit, Geraint stumbled to a halt, staring up, his heart pounding. Not a dozen yards away, the stones stood sentinel: dark, forbidding, watchful. He fought down a wild, unmanly urge to turn and run back from whence he had come by being as practical and prosaic as he could. He counted them twice: twelve. Four were larger than the rest, placed opposite one another in alignment with the points of the compass. Even the smallest were at least thrice his height. They were rough and pitted, their dark gray surfaces mottled in lichens, their feet lost in thick mounds of moss. The circle was large, perhaps fifty paces from one side to the other, and in its center stood a low mound, a miniature copy of the hill it crowned. A black hole like a door, large enough to accommodate a grown man, opened into the mound, lined and linteled with more stone.

Geraint stared, as dread settled upon him in a suffocating fog. He became aware that the silence around him was absolute. His journey up until now had been accompanied by the twittering of birds in the underbrush, the chuckle of the occasional stream or spring tumbling from some unseen crack, the sea-winds drifting through the grass. Here on the hilltop there was no noise. Even the ominous rumbles of thunder had died away. It felt as though the stones themselves sucked all sound into their center.

He stood, and his feet would not move, tied to the ground as though with invisible cords, and he suddenly found he was angry. He had collected enough tales of the Fair Folk to know that their general disposition toward humans varied widely, from overt malice to tolerant benevolence, depending on what type of creature you asked. Their king kept the instincts of his baser subjects in check when it suited him, and there were occasional stories of alliances, even friendships, between the races. The creatures who guarded this place, whatever their nature, were allied with Llyr; they had agreed to the arrangement, gotten their justice when called for. Why, then, fill the space around themselves with such formless dread, seek to terrorize any who approached? Why make themselves so difficult to contact in a time of need? They had _given the gem to the royal house._ Yet now it seemed they played him for a coward and a fool.

He had no patience for such caprice. Instinctively he pulled the iron knife from his pocket and crouched, stabbed it into the earth, cut a dark line into the green turf before him, slid it in a circle around him. He heard nothing, felt nothing, but all at once his feet were free of their weight, and he rose and stepped out, striding forward before he could lose his nerve, holding the knife before him in one hand. The stones were twenty paces away. Ten. Five.

Between the nearest two he paused. With his free hand he clutched the pendant at his breast, the gem pricking at his palm. He took a breath, and stepped within the ring.

* * *

Geraint blinked, looked around in confusion. Strange lights dazzled his eyes. Torchlight and candlelight winked from alcoves and braziers, bounced off surfaces polished to a mirror gloss, glittered from gems on the breasts and brows of…of…who were they? A crowd of revelers: couples danced past him in complex formations, men and women, fair of face and sumptuously dressed. Silks and velvets brushed him as they swept by, glimpses of floating gossamer hair and dark, beckoning glances. Music played from some hidden place, haunting, compelling; his feet wanted to follow its rhythm, to blend into the ring of dancers. Almost he let them. He thought, somehow, that he had been there a very long time, standing about like a rude churl. Joining in seemed the most natural and mannerly thing to do, particularly when one dancer broke away from her partner and turned to him, smiling with irresistible charm, holding out a welcoming hand. He reached for it automatically, unthinking, with the hand that clutched the iron knife.

The music made a sound like a thousand strings breaking. Before he could even react, the pretty face before him distorted into a thing of terror, the dark eyes expanding into deep slits like black gashes in a pinched white face, the mouth shriveling into a lipless hole that opened in a shriek of rage heard not with his ears but stabbed inescapably into his mind. The lights all disappeared as though simultaneously snuffed out, and left him in blackness and silence that was a relief, after the horror. Dizzily he stumbled forward, into…

A moonlit glen. A procession of figures on horseback was drifting slowly past him, barely more than an arm’s length away, singing a beautiful, unearthly chorus. Men and women, indescribably beautiful, robed in white and silver; they took no notice of him, but gazed straight ahead, serene, unhurried. Even their magnificent horses did not turn their heads. He felt an urge to speak, to draw their attention, to beg for inclusion in their midst, but a sense of reverence held his tongue, and he watched in silence, listening to the haunting song.

He lost all sense of time. They seemed to go by for hours, winding up from one stand of silver-leafed trees and disappearing around another. Finally, he realized he gazed at one last horse, riderless, bringing up the end of the procession. It was saddled and bridled, moving sedately forward. But next to him it stopped, turned its head and looked at him, and huffed out a gentle, invitational whicker.

Geraint stepped forward, holding out a hand to the lovely animal’s muzzle. The velvet mouth nuzzled his palm, soft whiskers tickling at his fingertips. The horse sidled closer to him, presenting him with easy access to a stirrup. He pondered it thoughtfully: silver filigree and tooled leather, exquisitely crafted, with strange symbols embossed into the straps; they swam before his eyes. Without knowing quite why he did it, he reached out with the iron knife, and scratched the leather with the point of the blade.

The horse screamed like something from the pit of Annuvin and he fell back as the procession ahead whirled toward him and became airborne like a flock of gulls, shattering the air with cries; their beating wings pummeled him. In confusion and terror he fell to the ground, and in the chaos dropped his knife.

The cries ceased as though cut off by a slamming door.

Golden light fell about him and he looked up. Before him spread a green meadow, sprinkled with wildflowers in a rainbow of pastel hues. Bees buzzed in the fragrant air; birds sang; overhead the sky was the pure cerulean of a midsummer day, the sunlight clear and warm. On the turf before him a dozen fair-haired children frolicked, their heads, wrists, and ankles bedecked with chains of flowers. They were picking jewel-bright berries from the brush, laughing gaily, tagging each other in a merry chase. One of the group called to him, waved him over. “Welcome, stranger.” It was a small boy, twinkling-eyed; he took his hand with the warm trust so common in children. “Come, play with us.”

Geraint let himself be led into their midst, charmed by their laughter. A tiny girl held out her basket of berries to him, lisping permission to share. The fruit glowed like rubies in the sunlight, and he found he was hungry, and reached for a berry just as one of the others asked his name. He looked up to answer and saw that they were all watching him with strange intensity, as though the fate of a world hung upon his response. It came to him that none of them were eating the berries themselves.

He knew, with a sudden, inexplicable certainty, that he must not answer truly, and spoke through lips gone dry. “I am called…storyteller, for that is what I do. Would you like to hear one?”

The intensity in their faces grew ravenous, a fey light shining in a dozen pairs of eyes. “A story.” The word rippled like a whisper of wind through their midst, though he did not see any of their lips form it. “Yes. _Yes._ Tell us a story. _All your stories._ ” The child with the berry basket pushed it toward his chest. Geraint looked down at it against his own will, compelled, and the silver chain at his throat swung forward, the pendant flashing into his line of vision.

The pendant. The gem. _Angharad._

He almost shouted her name in the rush of memory. His hand flew to the burning scar at his chest, knocking the basket from the child’s hand; the berries spilled in a crimson pool upon the green turf and disappeared. Again, a bloodcurdling shriek of rage assaulted his senses. He shut his eyes lest the features of the child be twisted into the same horrifying visage he had seen before. Long-fingered hands clawed at his limbs and broke away, accompanied by inhuman hisses of anger and pain. He was buffeted as though in a gale, felt as though he were being dragged; opened his eyes in a panic, upon darkness; he struck out at nothing. Fear assailed him like a living thing, a black and ravening beast, its maw gaping to devour him; gripped in its jaws his mind seemed to shrink to something small and transparent and lost. In a moment it would be gone completely, leave him an empty shell on that barren hilltop.

 _Angharad,_ he thought. He was failing her. The pendant was smooth and cool in his hand; the only solid thing he knew. With the last bit of sanity he possessed he pressed it to his lips. A vision of the sunrise over sea flashed into his mind, that glorious kiss of light upon water, and his heart’s wild, erratic race slowed, rolled to a steady, even beat. He held it before him: the blazing sun, the rose and gold clouds, the glittering sea-path to the horizon, and he whispered her name aloud. “Angharad.”

The air around him trembled at the sound, darkness fragmenting into green and gray; the ground was beneath his feet again, above him sky, no longer blanketed with cloud. It was the dark of twilight; stars shone in it, and an oblong moon, low, between two of the stones at his right. He blinked and turned slowly, taking in his surroundings. The green mound before him. The stone sentinels encircling him. He was within Pentre Gwyllion.

He stood still, waiting, but there were no more illusions. The air was as still as death, and he would have thought himself alone but for the cold certainty of a sentient presence, many of them, watching him with malevolent wariness. He thought of the children — no, the not-children; they had never been children. Twelve of them; one for each stone. He had survived them…so far.

Geraint threw his head back. “Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg,” he said aloud, “I have bested you.”

The words seemed to be pulled into some chasm cut into the silence, deadened and muted, but a whisper, like the one that had passed through the creatures in the meadow, hissed around him. From the corner of his eye he saw movement, the furtive flit of a wild thing disappearing into hiding; he whirled to look, but there was only one of the stones, dark and immobile.

 _You have trespassed._ The angry words whistled in his ears, in his mind, in a chorus of voices like wind through grass, thin and rasping and made of many notes; a discordant song, instantly swallowed by the silence. _You were warned. Warned. This place is ours, and mortal may not enter._

“The blood of Llyr may not enter,” he countered, with a confidence he did not feel. “So states the treaty between your people and those of this island. I am not of Llyr.”

Again, there was movement at the edges of his vision, gone when he jerked his head around to catch it. He felt a brush of disturbed air, as if some ephemeral thing had moved past him in the stillness, and shivered. The voices muttered to themselves, a sweep of dubious discontent that he sensed more than heard. _You speak truly, not-of-Llyr. But you carry Llyr with you,_ they accused, _and its own doom with it. Why have you brought the gem here?_

Surprised, he caught at an unexpected note, and concentrated on it. “You fear this?” He held up the pendant, dangling from its chain, and the wavering things in his peripheral vision scattered like leaves on a wind. He had an impression of a sweep of dark hair, of pale, unnaturally long limbs. “Why? Did you not gift it to them?”

The elusive presences seemed to consider him; whispering without any words he knew. _The king’s gift,_ they said finally, _the king’s concern._ _We gave them nothing. We do what is required. We abide by the terms._

“As you did for the queen’s consort.”

A ripple of outraged, defensive mutterings. _He broke the terms. He came to steal, a fool who knew nothing of the consequence. We protected the gem, protected the island, as we are bound to do._

He sensed resentment. “Bound to whom? Are you not here of your own will?”

Something like a howl rose up, and he blanched, remembering the black-slit eyes and horrible mouth in the broken illusion. _You ask many questions, not-of-Llyr,_ the voices snarled.

Geraint took a step back, heart pounding, and raised his hands placatingly. “It is true. Perhaps we might come to a…an equitable arrangement.” The voices quieted, and he had the sense of being the center of a circle of intense attention. The flickering in his vision slowed, became still, and he thought there were pale shapes, as edgeless as wraiths, at the base of each stone, shapes that disappeared when he looked at them directly. It was as though these creatures occupied spaces that defied the movements of his eyes, undetectable by anything but fleeting, accidental glimpses into the midpoint between light and shadow. He was not sorry for it. He had no desire to see them clearly.

He took three breaths, calming his nerves, wondering if he was about to curse himself, but he had only one thing to offer, and it was infinite. “I told you before that I am a storyteller. It was no deception. This is my offer. For every question, a story…your answer as payment.”

The quality of the silence changed. The deadness of it lifted, leaving a hushed, expectant stillness, charged like the air before a storm. The whisperings became eager chattering, anticipatory moans, the sort sighed out by hungry guests at the sight of a laden banquet table. Again, a movement in the air brushed past him — almost a caress, Geraint thought, with a prickling at his scalp — as one might stroke a pet lamb, one last time, before slitting its throat.

The voices spoke, in one bell-like note. _Done._


	28. Chapter 28

_Never ever mistake her silence for weakness,_

_Remember that sometimes the air stills,_

_Before the onset of a hurricane._

~Nikita Gill

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Angharad paced before her hearth, reading over and over the strange scrawling on the page she held…the page she had slid from beneath the stack of documents where Regat had hidden it, snatched while her mother had spoken with the boy at the door and hastily folded into a pocket of her gown. Arianrhod had seen her, of course, holding her eyes until her mother had turned back around. Angharad had known she would follow her, and waited in her chambers for her aunt’s soft knock, which came within minutes. The princess let her in, and held out the parchment without a word, waiting for confirmation of what she already knew.

“Father’s notes. Oh, Llyr. She told me they were gone.” Arianrhod’s grey eyes filled with tears, but sentiment did not override swift understanding as she took the page and scanned it. Her eye flew immediately to the same symbol that had caught Angharad’s attention in the first place. “The sign, Angharad!” She traced the three-spiraled knot, inked in the center of the page, surrounded by twelve dark blobs and scribbled runes. _“Dagrau Rhiannon._ He knew.”

“I’m not sure,” Angharad said. “The name appears nowhere, and remember, I had visions of this symbol before we ever knew what it meant. But somehow, he was onto _some_ thing. Look at this.” She pointed to a set of lines in the margins, clearly grouped to be verse, and read aloud:

_The bones of Llyr, enthroned,_

_in the stones of Llyr, entombed,_

_Only the blood of Llyr_

_Can for his shame atone._

_Cleave the tomb;_

_The fruitful womb_

_Shall bring Llyr home._

"It does look as though he was trying to break into the king’s barrow.” She shook her head, inmingled reverence and disbelief, and laid the parchment down again. “‘ _His shame’_ — surely that refers to the desecration of his body.” She was pacing now, scuffling the carpet in front of her hearth, unseeing, turned inward. “And if the _Dagrau_ really are Rhiannon’s tears, well, she wept over that, so the story goes; perhaps that’s how they came about. But this bit about _bringing him home_. Do you think your father intended to…to bring his bones back, somehow? Lay him to rest properly? It’s rather a noble thought, but maybe he only wanted the gems, and there’s nothing about them, except the symbol. It’s all so muddled.” She threw her hands up in confusion. “And ‘ _fruitful womb?’_ That sounds like _your_ jurisdiction. What do you make of it?” 

Arianrhod was holding the page, but seemed to be seeing something far away. “Such language,” she murmured, “nearly always denotes either the goddess, or the sea. But how it is all connected…I don’t know,” she admitted, with a sigh. “If only we could see the rest of it! Surely he had more than this.”

“He did. There were several pages with this handwriting, but I didn’t realize what I was looking at until I saw this symbol. I didn’t dare take more than this one.”

“Best keep it hidden,” Arianrhod sighed. “I wish I’d thought to press her a bit harder. That was clever thinking, about your dream,” she added. “You did not really dream all that, did you?”

Angharad waved a hand impatiently. “No, of course not; I would have told you. When I saw what she was looking into, I thought perhaps I could throw her off. The last thing we need is her sending her own emissaries to Pentre Gwyllion. I only hope she doesn’t miss this one page. Look how she reacted when she saw me holding it. She doesn’t want to discuss any of it; that’s certain; it wouldn’t have done any good to ask her about the rest.” She sat on her couch before the hearth, troubled. “I don’t like to keep lying to her, Aunt.”

“Nor I,” Arianrhod said, shaking her head, “but needs must. I hope it will not be for much longer. From certain things she said after you left, I think you were successful, at least, in turning her from the path of investigating that place.” She sat next to Angharad, resting an arm around her shoulders. “How are you managing, love?”

Angharad shrugged. The fear and grief that had split her heart asunder gnawed at her, crouching always in the corner of her mind, whispering sinister and despairing predictions. She felt paper-thin and dried-up, with no energy left for tears or for hope. “I got up this morning. I suppose that’s something.”

Her aunt squeezed her shoulders. “It’s far too soon for him to have returned today, you know, even if everything’s gone well.”

“I know.”

“And there’s no reason to assume it hasn’t.”

“No.”

“Then you needn’t ride to the shore yet. We have plenty of supplies. Come down to the grove and let the girls minister to you.”

Angharad mulled this prospect over: the plucked harps and herbed wine, the perfumed bath and the soothing rubdown, the meticulous grooming of hair and skin. She found she had no heart for it now. “No. Thank you. I want to keep thinking about this. Just…burn some extra grass for me.”

Arianrhod sighed. “Where is Elen? I don’t like leaving you alone.”

“In the solar, weaving or some such thing. I made her go. She fussed so much about it all yesterday I thought she’d be ill, and the hour she spent on my hair made both of us cross. She needs a rest from me. Don’t worry. I’ll send for her before I do anything terribly stupid, so she can scold me out of it.”

“Very well.” Her aunt stood, mouth twitching a little, no doubt in relief at the spark in her tone. “I must get back. Try to rest more before tonight if you can manage it. I daresay whatever Achren has in mind, even if it’s effective, won’t be pleasant for us.”

Angharad chewed her lip and nodded silently, and after Arianrhod left she draped herself over the couch, picked up the parchment again and stared at the scratches and scrawls of ink.

Only the blood of Llyr could atone. Yet the blood of Llyr was forbidden to enter. _Why?_

And did it even matter? Perhaps it was all a distraction when they needed to be focused on Arawn. Perhaps he wasn’t trying to get to the gem at all but something else. Or perhaps Achren was lying, as everyone knew she might.

Pushing the precious page out of sight beneath the couch, she laid her head wearily on her elbow and stared into the fire, both dreading and desiring sleep. What little she had managed since the previous day had been laden with strange dreams, vivid and disturbing, yet none that showed her the one thing she desperately wanted to see.

Geraint would be in Pentre Gwyllion by now if he were anywhere.

What was happening to him?

* * *

A silver blade flashed in the darkness. Angharad recoiled, shutting out the sight. The grip on her hands tightened, and she opened her eyes again, staring straight ahead, forcing herself to concentrate. Her mother and aunt were focused on Achren, who stood in their midst upon the tower, holding her right hand high.A dark rivulet dripped from her closed fist into the bowl upon the altar. In the colorless light of an almost-full moon, blood was as black as ink.

There were pebbles and earth in the bowl, the haul the page boy had brought for the queen’s inspection earlier. Freshly-turned from their own fields, the soil was dark and rich, smelling of dampness and the promise of life and growth. The drops sizzled upon it when they landed, and the smell changed, roiled into a nauseating combination of blood and earth and molten metal. Angharad stared at it in horror, wondering what, exactly, was being wrought. The strange magic seemed to pool in the bowl, drift over its sides, invisible but tangible to her mind, mingling itself into the soil, binding to its stones and earth like ligaments to bone.

 _The earth of Llyr,_ she thought. _The bones of Llyr_ …fearfully, she pushed the thought away. She could not think of that now; this process needed all her strength and attention.

Achren muttered words in a strange tongue, her eyes shut, head thrown back. Her hands traced patterns in the air, left a smear of ghostly light behind them that lingered on for seconds after. Long nails clawed into the earth in the bowl, brought up a fistful and held it before her, entwined in glowing strands. Magic pulsed on every side, so thick and potent it felt like a solid thing one could reach out and touch, manipulate like clay. It strained against the boundary placed around it, seeking a weakness.

The fistful of earth returned to the bowl and Achren crushed it flat. She clapped once, and then in a broad sweep of her full black sleeves, gestured out and down. The air crackled; the magic, invisible, swept outward. Angharad felt it dive into the stones of Caer Colur as though they were a channel, roaring down though the castle foundations and into the surrounding earth, spreading out in ringed waves of power. The floor trembled beneath them and from below, there were startled shouts from more than one sentry on the walls. A rumble like distant thunder rose up from every direction.

Words of power rang upon the air as the woman before her bent over the bowl, her hands, now trembling, gripped its sides briefly as though for balance and then plunged into the earth it held, compressing, compelling. Angharad gasped; knew the very foundations of the island shifted, for the gnawing fires were being forced down, away, out into the surrounding sea, a thing she felt in entirety of mind and body. The water roared at the intrusion, churned into clouds of vapor and steam, writhed up in swells and smashed against the cliffs in fury all over the coast; she _saw_ it, in her mind’s eye, felt the impact in her lungs and her gut and her knees and her very soul, felt it in the stunned terror and instant annihilation of untold numbers of small and voiceless creatures of the depths, in the screams of seal and dolphin and whale. The outraged sea deafened her and she nearly dropped to her knees, numb with horror, for endless seconds that seemed each to hold an eternity.

“Mind the water,” Regat’s voice pealed out, deep and sharp and sudden. “It will move toward the mainland. We must turn it back.”

In a whirl of realization Angharad turned her attention, following the command; she felt the disturbance in the sea, the roiling, crushing weight of water suddenly displaced, moving as its law demanded; out, away; it was rolling toward their neighbor in a wave of obliteration.

She felt, in their sympathetic connection, the shock and dismay that poured from her aunt, her mother’s instant and expert gathering up of power; their own power, fluid-quick, strong and sweet. It filled her up, and she joined her own mind to it, pushed her will into it and let it surround her. Their arms rose; they spoke words she knew well, though had never used; words that spread a spiraling wall of magic through the water, haltering its force. It was strong but it obeyed them, for they sought not to halt but merely to guide; they channeled it, turned it, pushed it north toward the open sea and released it, and the wave passed on like a ripple, undetected beneath the infinite depths. 

And then she was being pulled back, and back, her feet upon stone, her body upon the tower. Angharad returned to herself with a gasp of exertion. Achren stood amidst them bent over the wooden bowl, her head bowed, face hidden within the silver curtain of her hair.They all breathed heavily, like those who have just run a long race.

No one moved or spoke. Below them, the concerned voices of sentries were joined by the sound of slammed doors and a few cries of alarm, as members of the household ran out into the courtyards to see what had happened. Finally Regat loosed her hands from the others.

“Is it done?” she asked heavily.

Achren’s white face rose up, her eyes heavy-lidded and hollow. She still strained to catch her breath. “The rifts are sealed, for now. I do not assure you that the battle is over. He will recognize my work, and what he will do remains to be seen.”

“You did not warn us that the effects would be so violent,” Regat said, obviously displeased.

Achren shrugged, with the look of one too exhausted for argument. “You did not ask. I cannot predict or control all aspects of the process. The ramifications are what they are.”

There was a note of faint, vindictive satisfaction in the words. The queen’s mouth formed a thin, hard line at it, but she did not dwell on the matter. “I see. Then for whatever we have gained,” she said grimly, as though unconvinced it was much, “I thank you. I would ask that you remain on until we see what, if anything, he attempts next.”

“Of course,” said Achren, her voice regaining a bit of its customary silk. “I do have vested interest, as it were.” Angharad bristled at this, but at a glance from Regat, bit back the impulsive words at her lips. Achren noticed her agitation, and deliberately stepped close to her as she exited the circle, favoring her with a slow and contemplative smile that boded nothing pleasant. Angharad turned away from her contemptuously, masking her unease.

“What was the nature of that spell?” Regat demanded, as Achren moved to the edge of the parapet to look down, pulling her hood over her face to hide it from anyone who might look up from the courtyard. “It was nothing I have ever encountered.”

“No,” said Achren diffidently. “No, you wouldn’t have. Only one native to this land could wield it, and you are aliens, sojourners of old.”

“Llyr has borne us for two hundred years,” Angharad retorted. “Your definition of ‘native’ is rather narrow, is it not?”

Achren did not deign to look at her. “Your common people are bound to the island,” she acknowledged, “more, with every passing generation, as they mingle with their neighbors. But you Daughters are yet the Sea-people, a race apart, and none of your breeding with foreign magicians has yet tied your blood to this earth as deeply as mine. Indeed, no amount of it could. As you are bound to the sea, so I am bound to the land.”

She turned to gaze back toward the east, motioned toward it with one arm. “Prydain is the land of my ancestors. Once, my family ruled it from mountain to sea, before came the invaders whose descendants still spread their accursed seed upon it. Its very bones,” she said, “remember me. This island is formed from the earth at its edges. Once it was a part of Mona; now separate but kin. It recognizes me also, and heeds my commands, as the sea obeys yours.

“You should be glad of it,” she added, with a little smile of mocking triumph, turning to look Regat in the face, “for with that spell I tied myself to your terms more securely than your own magic could. My magic is now bound to the island; my blood runs in its veins. So you see it is in my interest more than ever to aid you, for whatever befalls it will have its effect upon me.”

Angharad exchanged an alarmed glance with Arianrhod, and saw her aunt perform a quick and subtle charm against fear, a furtive flash of her pale fingers in the air. Achren’s words seemed to weave another spell, subtler and darker, over them all, as the implications behind them began to surface. _Why would she bind herself like this?_

A seat at the table. It was no bluff. Achren clearly believed what she had told them— there was no other explanation for her committing herself to something that could cost her so dear. And if the future she foretold indeed came to pass… _Llyr, what have we done?_

Such binding spells always worked both ways; as Achren might share in the fate of the island, so would Llyr share in hers. In which case this woman, under their noses — nay, with their permission! — had just made it imperative that they protect and defend her under every circumstance, or watch their kingdom succumb to whatever fate was meted out upon her. It rendered Regat’s former terms useless — no matter what Achren did now, with their leave or without, they could not afford to allow her to reap the consequences.

Angharad looked at her mother, knew by her expression that she shared the same thoughts. Regat said nothing; her face went white, then hard and blank as stone. She would not, Angharad knew, give Achren the satisfaction of seeing her react to having her own terms so turned back upon her — for all the good such pride had done them and would do them still.

The princess backed against the altar and leaned on it dizzily.

A future hovered before her, its dark possibilities already apparent. A woman who did not age could bide her time until her prediction came to fruition, and then it would be what Achren demanded: a seat at the right hand of the High Queen she prophesied, a voice in her ear, a hand at her wrist…a noose around her neck.

She almost laughed at the irony of how neatly they had been snared.


	29. Chapter 29

_In the in-between times…_

_And at the in-between places_

_Where paths converge_

_A veil is parted_

_between the worlds_

_And one may enter_

_the Otherworld._

_But use much caution_

_dear one!_

_For you have entered_

_the Faery Crossing_

_And none return unchanged._

~unknown

* * *

Chapter 29

Geraint learned many things, within an hour.

Or was it the second hour, or fifth, or....never mind. One of the first things he learned was not to waste his stories on questions whose answers he did not really want. 

The second thing was not to ask questions that could be answered in only one word, an opportunity the gwyllion seized upon, at first, every time he carelessly gave it to them. Upon the third occurrence, in exasperation, he had told them a tale neatly contained within a four-lined limerick, and laughed, with flimsy bravado, at their grumbling response. “An answer worth my story,” he demanded, “or a story worth your answer.” They gave him no more mere “yes’s” or “no’s” after that, for they hung upon his words by then, an audience as insatiable as they were difficult, and he dared not take their attention for granted.

He had little time to analyze the answers they gave him, though he marveled at them; if he took too long in beginning a new tale, in mulling over the bits of information he received, the shadows in the corners of his vision moved with impatient menace and the muttering voices grew belligerent. More than once he felt a brush of cold, stale air upon his face, as though someone’s dying breath, long bottled, had been released beneath his ear. He shied away from it every time, startled, and then chided himself, reminded himself that they could do him no real harm — but their presence chilled him, and no amount of passing time served to erase his unease.

The foundations of the truth he sought took shape gradually, like a landscape appearing out of mist, solidifying here, melting away there, never revealed in entirety. Its implications shook him, but its form was elusive, and he groped forward like a blind creature, testing every new thought, daring to draw out his audience longer and longer each time before they demanded further sustenance.

His legs grew numb, and he paced to warm them, stumbling over the uneven ground. His back ached and his arms became heavy with gesturing, but his voice rang clear and even. Story after story. Question after question. They moved closer; he still could not see them but their presence pressed in, an invisible ring with him as the uncomfortable center. He wondered what they would do if he attempted to break through it.

He lost track of how many stories he had told them. From every corner of his memory he pulled legends of gods and heroes, love and loss, terror and grief, magic and mystery. They had their preferences. A particularly harrowing tale of a lone traveler, fairy-led to magical realms and lost for a century, only to crumble into dust upon returning to the world of mortals, set their whisperings rippling with something that sounded disturbingly like triumphant laughter. One of them interrupted, correcting a minor detail, and he stopped himself just in time from asking how it knew.

_How it knew…_

Of course it knew. He asked a question, got his answer, but his mind was already racing ahead, an idea forming like clay taking shape on a wheel. He tried it; told another well-known tale of an old man bewitched by the fae, deliberately mistaking an important point in a way that cast them as villains, and halted as their voices reached a fever pitch of indignation.

 _It was not so,_ one broke out above the chorus. _The fool was granted treasure, and he spent it on ale and merriment instead of needful provisions. His humiliation was no more than he deserved._

Geraint swallowed a desire to smile, warily amused both at their sense of justice, and the results of his test. The gwyllion, it seemed, could not bear inaccuracy in a story they knew. “Ah, yes. Of course. As his good wife pointed out, when he returned home. And so the story ends.” The creatures muttered in rather petulant satisfaction, and his thoughts flew, wary, devising. “Now, then. Why is the blood of Llyr forbidden to enter this place?”

He did not expect a straight or clear answer; he had already broached the topic in various ways and found them evasive. _Dagrau Rhiannon,_ the voices sighed, a name that carried a charge like lightning, prickling at his scalp. _The blood of Llyr would cleave the tomb. The gem must be protected._

“But I hold the gem here, a gift from your own people.” He held up the pendant, swinging in the air; there was a growing suspicion in his mind, needing only confirmation.

_That was neither question nor story, storyteller._

He sighed, a trifle irritably, and chanted out an old lay whose familiarity allowed him to put his mind elsewhere. Puzzling the pieces together, wondering if he dared follow the path that was laying itself before him, he stole a glance past the ring of stones. The world beyond it was lost in a grey haze that betrayed nothing of darkness or light, night or day; he was frozen in a netherworld, halfway between dream and reality. How long had he been here? How long could he afford to get his answers piecemeal?

The lay ended. A strange noise drew his attention past his own thoughts and he realized, with a jolt, that another tremor was underway. A stronger one, this time; a sudden jerk and he was thrown from his feet, tumbling to the ground and crouching helplessly as it shook beneath him. The gwyllion groaned aloud, their voices grinding like gravel, and somewhere within the chaos he thought the stones themselves cried out in anguish and outrage.

The shock faded and the ground stilled; Geraint raised himself, sensing the presence of the creatures around him as they crept back to their places in his audience; he felt oddly as though they were crawling toward him for comfort. There was unmistakable terror in their whispers, an overwhelming sense of hopeless dread.

“What binds you to this place?” he blurted out, and cursed his own carelessness; it was a wasted question, and he knew exhaustion was muddling his mind.

The gwyllion hissed like wind whistling through a stone wall. _Doom,_ the answer came back, in a despairing moan. _Doom, a sentence upon us; an alliance between our king and the House of Llyr, but not our will. And now Llyr bleeds; its foundations crumble, and its death will be ours, for we cannot leave._

Geraint stiffened in surprise. What could they have done to earn such a sentence? He pushed the thought away; he was probably happier for not knowing, yet perhaps the question had not been wasted after all. The air around him moved uneasily; they were unsettled, their attention scattered. Time was passing, and this was, perhaps, the best chance he would get.

He rose to his feet, gathered up his strength and all the force of his experience and skill, trusting, perhaps recklessly, in his own intuition. “Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg,” Geraint announced. “I shall tell you the story of Llyr, of its past, and possibly, its future, and within it I shall tell your own story, of how you may be saved.”

The voices were cut off by a complete, expectant silence; they said nothing for long minutes. His pulse pounded in his ears. He clutched Angharad’s pendant in his fist and spoke. “Once,” he said, “a king in a faraway land had a dream…”

Threads of story, spun from their answers, wove themselves into the tapestry he already knew, a history spread like a quilt upon the land at his feet. Empty holes gaped where loose ends unraveled; he left them hanging, dangling, tempting, and waited, tense, for his listeners to take the bait. They did. One voice, then another, contradicting, confirming, others rising in a chorus of agreement or a tangled snarl of argument, until he stepped in to smooth them out, to untangle the knots and weave in the finished threads.

He handed them a pattern and they returned it to him expanded, given breadth and height and depth until he was dazzled with its colors, breathless with anticipation at the next twist in the weave. He expected them to notice, any moment, that they were giving him answers freely, but they were caught up in the flow of story, their dread mutterings turning to silky murmurs like the far-off hum of music. Eventually he had the impression, not so much that he deceived them, but that he had set them free to do what they should have been doing all along; that he was no master of this weaving but merely one more thread, swept along upon the loom of their memories.

The tapestry glittered in his mind, threaded in fire-gold and watered-silver and a thousand other colors between, dark threads and light, sorrow and joy. Over all love and life strove against barrenness and death, and at the center three treasures were gained and lost, gifted and held, hidden, waiting. His heart raced and his mouth went dry. The image revealed left him without words, and he fell into silence without knowing it. The gwyllion continued to speak for minutes more, their voices trailing into laments.

 _It has all been for naught._ _The island burns_ , they wailed. _The fires reach even our domain, these flames of darkness and death, and there is nowhere to escape them._

“What if there is?” he called out abruptly, and their sobbing ebbed. “If this story is true, and one of Llyr comes, and cleaves the tomb, and the gem—,”

 _Doom,_ they interrupted him. _We must protect the gem._

“But you would be freed from your bondage here,” he pointed out. “You would be released.”

Silence. Their shock quivered in the air. A single voice sighed. _None can release us, Storyteller, save a Daughter of Llyr. The alliance is with the Royal House._

“And if one were willing?”

A disturbed grumble arose, various voices in disagreement. He felt their communion slipping away, and caught quickly at the threads of the story. “And one day, a Daughter of Llyr, an heir of the Royal House, will come unto the sacred stones, to reward the faithful service of the gwyllion in their time of distress. She will declare their sentence fulfilled, and release them from their alliance, that she may enter unhindered to the place they guard, and do what she must to save her people.” He paused, listened to his own breath ghosting into the dead silence. “Is that how this story will end, Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg?”

There was a hiss, mingled of doubt and excitement. The air currents brushed him constantly now, close, as though they stood around him in an eager crowd. _It is a good story,_ murmured the voices, _a good story, Storyteller._

There was a note of gloating satisfaction, almost a bizarre affection in their words that made the hair on his arms rise. _Our centuries here,_ they whispered, _would have seemed shorter, had you come sooner. You will stay what time remains. You will ease our burden and turn our thoughts from fear._

He took a step back, his heart sinking. “I cannot stay here. I must return to those who sent me to you.”

The voices became almost gentle, low and coaxing as though speaking to a frightened child. _There will be naught to return to. It is not your fight. You must stay with us, not-of-Llyr, until the last stone falls, and all will perish together. That will end the story._

Geraint glanced around frantically at the ground, wishing for the small dagger. These creatures could not directly harm him, thanks to the protections he bore. But could they force him to stay?“That was not our bargain. I prefer my ending.”

_You cannot make it so._

“I speak for the Princess Angharad,” he cried, “daughter of Regat, daughter of Mererid, of the Royal House, who has the authority to free you.”

The air stilled around him; the world held its breath. He counted the seconds in heartbeats.

_This is a great claim for a storyteller._

“It is the truth,” Geraint insisted. “You see I carry her emblem, entrusted with her gem.”

_You may have stolen it. The gems are sought, always, by thieves._

“Then look here.” He yanked at his neckline, baring his breast. “I bear this mark from her own hand, branded by her love, for my heart is hers, and it was she who sent me here for your aid.”

He sensed their movement, the weight of their scrutiny. Invisible, half-solid things brushed across the crescent shape at his breast like searching fingers. More mutterings and low moans; he could not tell if they were impressed, skeptical, or disappointed, and for a time none spoke to him, though they seemed to confer together. Finally, a whisper… _how do you know she will do this thing?_

He swallowed. “I do not. But I believe she will. I believe that she must, if your common enemy is to be thwarted in his designs. Let me return to her, so that I may share what you have revealed to me.”

There was a doubtful buzzing, like disturbed bees. _If she will not free us, then you must stay._

Geraint caught his breath, and cast about for another solution; they were all around him now, their whispers drowning out his thoughts, and he felt his strength draining, as though they fed on his very essence. They could not force him to stay, perhaps, but they could make it very difficult for him to leave, and again, he felt the urgency of passing time.“I will not put her in that position, nor can you force me to give you that which you desire, even if I stayed. But hear this. Whether she frees you or not, release me now and I….I will pledge you one day of every year, as long as I live, beginning a year and a day from now, as we count time in the mortal realm. Wherever I am, when that day comes, make a way for me and I will come to you, and you will have stories, from sunup to sundown, all your own. I swear it.”

They rustled excitedly, but the whisper came back with some indignation. _This is no arrangement. If she does not free us, the fires will burn, and we will perish with the island. Nothing will be here in a year and a day._ A brief, thoughtful silence. _Every full moon. Thirteen times in a year will you come._ There was a hint of vindictive amusement in their voices. _It is fitting, given the one you serve._

He looked at the gem in his hand, and a wry smile pulled at his mouth. "It is indeed fitting. Done. Every full moon."

A rush of wind swirled through the stone ring as though a whole fleet of invisible spirits of the air had taken wing. The gwyllion howled, a sound both mournful and victorious. _Send her, storyteller. Llyr and not-of-Llyr. Free us._

“A bargain?” he persisted. “Swear to me that no harm will come to her, no deception or enchantment.”

_A bargain. You have our word._

As carven in stone, then. Whatever their capriciousness, the Fair Folk never broke their word. “How can she come?” he demanded. “Until you are freed, the treaty stands. Your terms made contact impossible.”

There was a sound like a cackle. _Clever,_ they said, _so clever._ Something glittered at his feet. _Behold, Storyteller._

Geraint looked down. A battle horn lay upon the earth in front of his toes, a beautiful curve of carved and inlaid ivory, the mouthpiece molded silver. He crouched to retrieve it, cradled it admiringly in his hands. “What is it?”

 _A summons. She must blow it when she is ready to come to us, but only then, for it holds three calls and no more. We aid the one who blows the horn._ A series of notes sounded in his mind, a short string of haunting melody. _Remember it._ The notes sounded again, and he hummed them, committed them to memory.

Geraint hung Angharad’s pendant at his throat again and tied the horn to his belt. He stood straight, and turned slowly, staring at each stone in turn. The shapes at their bases glowed and wavered like marsh lights, as solid as he had yet seen them; he made out vague forms, humanlike but misshapen, limbs too long, torsos too small, ovoid heads without faces. His horror of them was tinged now with pity. They wanted their freedom, and it was a desire he knew well enough. 

“Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg,” he called, raising his arms to them, “I thank you for what you have told me.”

The shapes wavered, the voices chanted. _Next full moon, Storyteller._ A quavering of eerie amusement wove through the chorus. _Next full moon._

He backed away, his neck prickling, until two stones rose on either side of him, dark shadows at the corners of his vision. Another step, and another, and he stood outside the ring, and turned from its gray-misted secrets to look about him.

Sunlight fell upon his shoulders like soft golden rain, from a sky the pale blue of midmorning. Cool air wafted from the hills, bearing the scent of heather blossoms. Geraint took two steps before his knees buckled beneath him; he stumbled to the turf, and darkness claimed him.

When he opened his eyes again the light was the deep blue of early twilight, and he blinked in confusion, and rose to his hands and knees with a groan. He was thirstier than he ever remembered being in his life, and tore into his satchel for his water flask. Drained, it did no more than take the edge off, which served to make him realize he was also ravenously hungry. His eyes burned from dryness and he blinked rapidly, dug out what remained of his provisions, and ate it all with no thought of rationing. His head felt thick and dizzy; his limbs were clumsy with weariness.

It was some time before he felt capable of struggling to his feet and beginning the slow descent from the hilltop. He did not look back at the stone ring; its presence behind him pressed upon him like a glare, and he thought he would be happy never to see it again.

At the bottom of the first valley he dunked his head in the stream that ran there and drank deeply, throwing all thought of faerie-charmed waters to the winds. Let them take him if they wanted, as long as he could quench this thirst. Shaking his wet hair back, he leaned against a boulder and took careful stock of himself. He ached everywhere, the stiff ache of exhaustion, but was unmarked and unwounded, with one exception; he touched the burn at his chest and looked down in surprise. He felt no pain; the crescent mark was smooth and white, a scar fully healed. He frowned, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, and realized with a start that his face was rough with growth that only many days could account for.

He sucked in a horrified gasp. How long _had_ he been in the ring?

Geraint staggered to his feet and searched the sky, but there was no moon; it was yet not risen, or perhaps was blocked by the hills. He yanked up his satchel and labored as fast as he could up the next slope, bent almost double at times, clawing at the earth, pulling his way to the top. The light failed steadily; as he crested the summit of the next ridge, the pure white sliver of a waning crescent moon sliced the sky before him. He stared at it, trying to remember what he had seen the night before he entered Pentre Gwyllion. It had been…oh, of course, almost full, a thing he could hardly forget, after what Angharad had told him. And now crescent. Then he had been gone…g _ood Llyr._

Over two weeks.


	30. Chapter 30

_She was, in fact, a child of the moon._

_Wandering around aimlessly, in the dark._

_Bringing light to everyone around her._

_~S &A_

* * *

Chapter Thirty

Midsummer feast was a gala occasion. The Great Hall was hung with sunburst banners, and long tables brought in to accommodate the royal house, the court, the priestesses, and important dignitaries from all over their territory. Minstrels played from the corners and the upstairs galleries. All guests were plied with the firstfruits of early crops and savory roast meats of young stock and game. Wine and ale flowed freely, bearing equally welcome tides of laughter and song upon their crimson and golden waves.

Angharad sat at the head table and gazed upon it all with numb distaste and no appetite. She crushed her bread into crumbs and apathetically pushed food about on her platter, like a child attempting to give the illusion of having mostly eaten some loathed but insisted-upon vegetable. The noise of the assembly, the flash and color of festive garments, all beat on her senses. She wanted to slide under the table and disappear.

At her right, Eilwen elbowed her. “You’re not eating.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It won’t do you any good to waste away while you wait, you know.” Her sister waved her empty goblet at a handsome young servant, who hurried over to fill it and then backed away, red-faced. Angharad tried to ignore his expression, and her own guesses at whatever Eilwen had done to cause it.

“Behave yourself,” she admonished her.

Eilwen twinkled at her over the rim of the cup. “Oh, I am, believe me. I wanted to pinch him.” She set her wine down and bent her head nearer, speaking low. “Did you notice your new suitor there?”

Angharad could hardly have missed him; as round and bald as an egg, covered in jewelry, he glittered like mica in the torchlight. He had arrived the day before, and both her would-be husbands were now seated at a table below, an honorable but respectful distance from the royal family. The other man was dark-haired, with a nose like a hawk’s beak, and somehow gave the impression of gauntness despite being tall and broad-shouldered. He was robed in black, and wafted a self-aware aura of ominous mystery like a priestess swinging an incense-burner. Angharad had hated them both on sight, and was thankful that Regat had insisted that they were to have no contact with her prior to their official presentation, to avoid any accusations of unfair advantage given.

“He’s ridiculous,” she muttered. “Look at that neckpiece he’s wearing, and the trinkets sewn onto his robe. He looks like a walking dragon-hoard.”

“But how he sparkles,” Eilwen whispered. “Such lovely jewels. I daresay he leaves a trail of them wherever he goes.”

“Like mouse droppings,” Angharad snorted. “I suppose he wears diamond-encrusted nightshirts.”

“You’re the only one who could find out,” Eilwen said wickedly. “But think what you might be missing. The other could be hiding even finer jewels under all that black.”

“He looks like he sleeps in a shroud. Fancy wearing black to midsummer! I doubt he’s seen the sun in the last six months. He’ll likely burst into flames during the ceremony tonight,” Angharad said, knocking breadcrumbs into her lap in agitation. “Am I really so undesirable that these were all that were interested?”

“I think you know better than that,” her sister muttered. “More likely they were the only ones who qualified. If these are the best available, magic arts really are in dire straits among our neighbors. But buck up; there could be more on their way. Mother should have cast a wider net. Just think, you could have some lusty blue-painted Eirian druid if she’d give it a bit more time.”

Angharad choked on a sip of wine, and buried her face in a linen napkin to hide her…what were they, laughs or sobs or something in between? Her chest ached with holding back a flood of hysterical tears. She felt her mother’s frown from her left, turned upon her at this unseemly display, and tried to turn her noises into coughs. Eilwen squeezed her hand beneath the table, waited until she calmed herself, and whispered amusedly, “Sorry.”

“No you aren’t.”

“Well, _some_ one has to make you laugh…or as close as you can get to it.” She lowered her voice again, and spoke behind the rim of her cup. “Been back yet?”

“I went this morning for the first time,” Angharad murmured. “Nothing yet.” The cove, once her sanctuary of peace and solitude, had screamed its emptiness at her, in a cacophony of silence that had paralyzed her with grief. It had taken an hour before she could rouse herself to collect what she needed and leave.

“It’s only been six days. Counting two to get there and two to get back, that leaves two to deal with whatever he found. And it might take longer for him to get back, anyway, you know, rowing against the current.”

“I know.”

“He’d likely be better off circling the island and coming ‘round again from the northwest. We should have told him.”

“He’s clever enough to know that,” Angharad answered, a little crisply.

“There you are, that sounds more like you. Just…don’t worry, darling. I’m sure he’s all right.”

Angharad sighed. Heartsick as she was, she had tried not to worry. Eilwen was correct, after all, about the timing of it, and she had determined not to visit the south shore at all until five interminable days had elapsed.

By the time they had, she was more than eager to escape the confines of Caer Colur, which had become ever more fraught with tension. Regat was bitterly angry over Achren’s manipulations — whether more at the danger they posed or at her own humiliation at being the means by which they had come about, no one dared ask. It was not the queen’s way to rail in a temper, of course. She remained icily calm, as steady as ever, but she felt, Angharad thought, something like the island itself: solid on the surface, while deep beneath it, fire waited to erupt.

Except that it hadn’t. Regat had made an explanation to the anxious court and staff regarding the tremor they had felt during the spell, a reassurance that it had been due to particularly potent magical activity but completely under control. There had been some dissatisfied grumbling, but in a few days it was noted that reports of new tremors upon the island had ceased. The procession of fisherman, farmers, and crofters displaced by rockslides and begging for assistance trickled to a halt. Further reports from the evacuation of Abegwy mentioned a return of wildlife to the affected areas, and announced that the illnesses spawned by the poisoned air were fading quickly. It seemed that Achren’s work, whatever else it had done, had indeed been successful at quenching the turmoil underground, for now. Angharad resented the relief they all felt at this, her own included. The attention of the court had been cautiously diverted, rumors of trouble giving way to excited chattering about the arrival of foreign enchanters, anticipation of the pomp and ceremony of a royal wedding. She wanted to scream every time it was mentioned.

Achren herself remained sequestered in her apartments, doing goodness only knew what besides living on their hospitality. Arianrhod had set about searching through every spell they knew in hopes of finding a way to undo the connection Achren had formed, a process both exhausting and, so far, unproductive; meanwhile there was the midsummer ceremony to prepare for, which took additional supplies and time for all of them, on top of their usual duties. There had been no time for any secret scrying with her aunt and sister to see if magic might show them anything of Geraint’s whereabouts or welfare, and Angharad had had no dreams of him. She had tried not to hope too hard that he had already returned, but had realized, upon cresting the edge of the cliffs that morning and seeing no film of blue smoke rising from the chimney of the hut, just how much hope had remained in spite of her resolve.

“I’m not sure of anything,” she whispered now, “except that I want to be out of here.”

“Can’t blame you for that,” Eilwen sniffed. “Look at those two glowering at each other! They’ll be throwing food any minute. It’s a crying shame. If I were queen, the first thing I’d do is abolish that stupid law and then marry whomever I pleased. You might consider the same.”

“If _you_ were queen, a number of things would be different,” Angharad snapped in exasperation, “as they would if I were queen now, for that matter. But since I’m not, I’d rather not discuss choices I don’t have.” Her throat burned with suppressed tears, and Eilwen squeezed her hand again.

“Stay angry,” the girl whispered. “It’s better than feeling nothing.” She pushed a hunk of uncrumbled bread across to her, and Angharad grabbed it, suddenly ravenous, and glared at her while she chewed.

* * *

Upon the watchtowers, great unlit torches were set, ready for the lighting of the midsummer fires. The enchantresses of Llyr gathered upon the terrace in the courtyard, before an audience comprised of all those who had attended the afternoon feast. The western gates were thrown open, their placement aligned so that all could observe the setting of the sun, the ending of this longest day of the year.

Firstfruits lay upon altars placed at intervals, awaiting the appointed time. Regat, stately in scarlet and crimson, her silvering head crowned in gold, addressed the assembly with formal grace, calling upon the blessing of Belin for another year, thanking him for the light that gave them warmth and sustenance and cheer, wishing him peace as he began his slow descent into the restful darkness of harvest and winter. She motioned, at length, for her daughter to join her. Angharad stepped forward, as she had every year since her childhood, and placed the Golden Pelydryn upon its stand, a miniature sun that ignited in the last rays of that which it modeled, glowing in the gathering dusk.

There was a hushed murmur of appreciation from the crowd as the princess stepped back into place, joining hands with her mother and aunt, flanked by her sister and a scattering of higher-ranking young women from the grove. They all raised their arms and voices in a chant, the words familiar, the accompanying magic redolent with summer. The shaft of sunset light poured radiance in a red-gold river across the terrace, and the Pelydryn flamed like a beacon.

Angharad, secure within the triad, drifted into the flow of sunlight and flame that comprised this spell. It filled her up, in a rush of vitality and heat, a sense of joyful triumph that was a relief to her troubled spirit; it was the one time they need not maintain the delicate balance of their elements, but could give fire its free and fierce rein. She gathered it up, allowed it to pass between and through her and her companions, in all its pulsing and potent exhilaration. In moments they would release it, and all the watchtower fires and altars would ignite at once, in a spectacle of sparks and smoke that would be repeated, without magic, all along the island, as villagers and farmers, fisherfolk and crofters lit their own bonfires to commemorate the day.

The sun sank lower. Any moment.

Angharad stiffened. Something was…wrong, or different, at least: a break in the flow of magic, small, almost imperceptible. Perhaps she had imagined it, but…no, there it was again: a dropped stitch in the weave, an extra note in the music, a crack in the fire where water seeped through, sizzling, insistent. She barely had time to do more than discern it, to wonder if she were the only one who sensed it, when Regat spoke the final words, and all hands gestured out toward altar and sky. The Pelydryn flared, and every waiting pile of kindling erupted as the sun disappeared over the horizon.

The assembled crowd cheered and whooped, their shouts drowning out the cry of surprise from their princess. Angharad had fallen back, and only the quick reactions of Regat and Arianrhod kept her on her feet. She clung to their hands, terrified, beset by sensations she had never known. It was as though at the last moment she had not just released fire but…expelled it; the element bursting away, suddenly opposed by everything in her. The aftermath of it left her shaking, gasping for breath, as though she’d been physically shoved by a mighty, invisible force. Her limbs tingled with residual magic, and she was conscious of a flow of darkness and water into the spaces fire had left empty; the fierce energy was gone, replaced by a slow, rich heaviness that dragged at her spirit. She felt vaguely as though she’d been wrapped in warm quilts, and odd, disconnected images flitted through her mind.

Regat called her name sharply. Fright gave way immediately to embarrassment as she caught the expressions of shock and dismay turned upon her, not only from her aunt and mother but from all others in close vicinity. A murmur arose from the priestesses, and Eilwen, after a piercing look of concern, hurriedly began another song to distract them. Angharad pulled at those that held her and forced herself all the way upright, throwing her head back, though she still trembled, and the scene swam before her eyes. Her hands stayed clutched tightly on either side; her mother’s grip was iron; her aunt’s was ice.

They joined in the song long enough for the people to be reassured that whatever had just happened was a mere aberration, that their leaders were in calm and complete control - if anyone were still watching, though blessedly, most weren’t; there was dancing and hand-clapping around the fires, merriment and song, for midsummer was a time to forget worries and rejoice.

A tug at her hand; she was being pulled back hastily, through a door and into a nearby passageway, Regat leading the way. “Up,” the queen said tersely, “to my chambers at once. Both of you,” she added, though Arianrhod had shown no signs of allowing them to leave her. Indeed, the priestess now clung to her arm with both hands, and her shallow, quick breath chased Angharad down each dark passageway until they arrived at the queen’s apartment.

All the servants were still in the courtyard and the room was silent, the ashes cold in the grate. Regat turned to Angharad, dropping her hand; her expression a terrible mix of anger and disbelief. “Light the fire,” she ordered her daughter.

“Regat—,” Arianrhod blurted out, but her sister silenced her with an abrupt motion of her hand.

“Angharad,” she repeated, slowly, in a voice that wavered, “ _light the fire_.”

Angharad, frightened and mystified, motioned toward the hearth, with the careless flicker of thought she had commanded since childhood. Nothing happened. She stared at the hearth, at her own fingertips; she tried it again, with the same result. It was baffling, unbalancing, as though she had lost one of her hands. Behind her, she heard Arianrhod gasp, and mutter a phrase in the divine language of the grove.

Regat went white —with shock or fury, or perhaps both; for a moment Angharad thought she would strike her, and she took an involuntary step back. Arianrhod’s arms went round her shoulders protectively. Angharad wanted to cry out, to ask what she had done that warranted such a reaction, but her mouth seemed glued shut.

“Impossible,” the queen gasped. “Where have…who…?”

“Do not be hasty, Regat,” Arianrhod broke in urgently. “This need not be a crisis unless you make it one.”

Angharad twisted around to look at her. “What crisis? _What is happening?_ ”

Her aunt gazed upon her, her eyes stricken, expression a cross between dismay and a strange, bittersweet reverence. “Oh, Angharad.” She cupped her cheek in a wistful caress. “How can you have been so careless, love?”

Regat made a jerky move toward them both, glaring at her sister. “You…I….” She made a wordless sound of outrage and fell silent, speechless. Angharad stared at them both blankly, mind in a spiral. Careless?

There was a scuffling, a muffled exchange of harried voices, and Eilwen burst in, slamming the heavy door behind her. She carried the Pelydryn, still alight, and tossed it to the couch. Ignoring everyone but her sister, she flew across the room and threw her arms around her. “You precious, beautiful fool,” she whispered, as Angharad weakly returned the embrace, still lost in confusion. “Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon?”

“Tell you _what?”_ Another moment of this and she would lose control completely, run screaming from the room. “I don’t know what’s—,”

Eilwen pushed away and held her at arm’s length to look at her, her emerald eyes wide with amazement. “You don’t know?” she repeated. “Oh, honestly, Angharad. And here I thought you’d done it on purpose. Don’t you know what it means when the power balance upends itself like that? You’re pregnant, you idiot.” Eilwen cupped her crescented hand to her breast, shaking her head at such willful ignorance even as she murmured, “Blessed Rhiannon,” for once, as if she meant it.

Angharad stared at her stupidly, uncomprehending. Her mind raced backward, counting the days. “That’s…not possible.”

Eilwen raised one black brow wryly. “I assure you, with the way you’ve been carrying on—,”

“You _knew.”_ Regat’s voice broke in like a falling axe. They all faced the queen, took in her pale face, the two spots of red flaming in her cheeks, as she glared accusingly at her sister and second daughter. Angharad reached back and clutched at Arianrhod’s hands. “All of you,” Regat gasped, “how dare you keep such secrets? How long has it gone on? Have you lost your senses completely?” She halted before Angharad, trembling with fury. Her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “What man _dared_ to touch you?”

Never had Angharad seen her mother so lose her composure. The shock of it only added to the numb bewilderment she felt, but this question ripped through her stunned paralysis, leaving one blazing certainty: she would never betray _him._ The princess raised her head, faced the queen, and shut her mouth.

Regat read her expression clearly, and her own mouth pressed into a thin line. Angharad, her heart racing, saw the mind churning behind her dark eyes. Regat whirled; in two steps she was at her couch, jerking the bellpull that hung at its end to summon a messenger.

“Sister—,” Arianrhod began again, but the queen quelled her with one glare. A dreadful silence fell, so thick Angharad felt she could have poked holes in it if she reached out. Her mind still refused to wrap itself around reality; she felt faint and distant, as though she watched herself from somewhere else, and from somewhere else she heard her own breath release in a whimper, startled by a knock and a respectful, inquisitive voice at the door.

Regat crossed to it and opened it a crack; Angharad could not see the face on the other side, but neither could the queen, for she did not take her eyes from her daughter’s face as she spoke. “Take a message to Gruffydd Hywel,” she ordered, naming the captain of the guard. “Send five guard to the old fisherman’s cove on the southern coast, east of Abernant. Whomever they find there, bring him in. Alive. I want a report by midnight.”

Angharad could not hear the response. She felt rather than heard the strangled sound that tore from her throat, and sagged against Arianrhod as her knees gave way in a dizzy wave. Her vision filled, at its edges, with darkness, like curtains being drawn, and she fought it off as her aunt caught her and lowered her to the couch. Arianrhod’s clear eyes flashed fire, but her voice was low, crooning, “It’s all right, darling. It’s all right. We will not let him be harmed. Stay calm.”

“He’s not there,” Angharad whispered. “He’s not returned.” Unless he had come today, after she had left. _Oh, please,_ Llyr, _let him not have returned._ Regat had shut the door and stood by the cold hearth; Angharad caught her breath around a sob, choked out, “They won’t find him there. He’s gone.”

“I see,” said her mother icily. “The typical way of it — amused himself and then left you, did he?”

“I sent him away,” Angharad retorted, indignant, but Regat ignored her.

“That I should see the day when a Daughter of Llyr would be played a fool by any man. My own daughter. My own _heir!_ ” The queen threw her hands toward the grate and the cold embers roared to life. “Blessed _gods,_ how could you betray us this way? And at this _time?_ The law, Angharad!”

“Oh, Mother, for goodness’ sake.” Eilwen, who had curled next to her sister on the couch, threw back her black head defiantly. “You keep Angharad so chained up with rules and duties and obligations and then have the gall to be shocked that she might crave a little happiness and affection? And you call _her_ a fool?”

“Silence,” Regat gasped, but Eilwen jumped to her feet, her face crimson.

“It’s marvelous you can rant about keeping secrets, given what’s been going on for months,” she cried.“You’ve put countless lives in danger and invited dark magic into our circle instead of asking for help, yet you’re angry at _her?_ For daring to seek out what you always rejected? At _us,_ for being glad she was happy?” 

_“Enough,”_ the queen ordered, and the air crackled around them. Eilwen, unsubdued, stared her down, stepping in front of Angharad.

“You know blasted well how hard she’s tried to live up to your ideals and do everything you ask of her. She’s too concerned with pleasing you to tell you how it’s killing her, but I’m not. It’s your own fault, Mother, and if you hurt her even _more_ now, by the goddess, I swear it, I’ll—,”

 _“Eilwen!”_ It was Arianrhod this time, breaking in none too soon, for the crackle in the room had reached a breaking point; the hearth-fire was roaring, candles were sputtering to life of their own accord, and the leading in the windows had begun smoking. The priestess stepped between her sister and niece, laying a hand upon her subordinate gently. “Your sense of justice is admirable, love, but remember to whom you speak. Come, Regat.” She took the queen by the arm and steered her toward the other side of the room near a window, pushing open the casement to let in more air. They conversed there in low murmurs, urgent and intense, the queen pacing before the open window, her sister standing straight and still.

Angharad stayed motionless on the couch, barely comprehending all that had been said. Her mind felt tethered in a sphere of blank emptiness; all the harsh words bounced like blunt arrows from its surface. Eilwen sat beside her again, warm and trembling with defensive anger, and wrapped her tightly in her arms, laying her silken cheek against her sister’s head. “I don’t blame you,” she whispered, “not one bit. I’d have done the same thing. Now you’ve got something of him to keep.”

Memory stirred, pushed itself into the emptiness. “That’s what I told him,” Angharad murmured, in wonderment. “It’s what I wanted, but he wasn’t sure. But I thought…” She shook her head. “The timing, Eilwen; it’s all wrong. I had no signs. He left before full moon. How—?”

“It’s rare to conceive out of season,” Eilwen sighed, with a shrug, “but not entirely unheard of, especially when someone’s been under as much worry as you’ve been; things get all unhinged. And besides that, Rhiannon does what she wills. Even Mother can’t thwart the goddess, much as she’d probably like to.”

“How did you all know?”

“That spectacle of yours at the fire-lighting. Don’t worry - I don’t think anyone else there caught on, though everyone was a bit concerned. I knew as soon as you tossed the last spark; I felt that flood on its heels. You’re the goddess now, all water and womb; there’s no room for fire, except what’ll be hers. Those powers will come back in time. Fully, after she’s born.”

After she’s born. _She._ Angharad rolled the words in her mouth, tasting their solid reality. A daughter. Geraint’s child. _Their_ child. A wondrous, disbelieving sweetness filtered through the haze of her thoughts, finally, a spark of joy that caught and blazed in a tremulous, flickering glow. She let her stiff body soften into her sister’s embrace, laying her head on her shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered, clasping Eilwen’s hand, “for all that, just now. I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

Eilwen chuckled, very low. “ _Llyr_ , don’t be daft. Just….oh, name her after me and we’ll be even.” She kissed her cheek and sighed, a mingling of resignation and joy.

The voices from the other side of the room rose in a heated debate. “…so early,” Regat was arguing, “it would be a small thing to…”

Arianrhod cut her off with unwonted vehemence, hissing. “Do not even speak what is in your mind. You would allow your fear and anger to drive you to blasphemy. If Rhiannon abandons us what will we have left?”

The girls glanced over at this, took in the priestess’s outraged, flashing eyes, her usually-mild face flushed with anger. Regat looked frustrated and slightly cowed. Angharad shivered, and instinctively curled herself forward, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She thought anxiously of Geraint, of his ambivalent response to her bringing up this very possibility, that last day with him at the cove. How could she tell him? Would he be happy or dismayed? Would he think she had tricked him? Would he stay?

_Where was he?_

Turned inward, she realized presently that the murmurs from the corner had ceased, and looked up. Arianrhod stood at the window, looking out upon the darkness, her expression tense. Regat had returned to the hearth and was staring into the flames. She had removed her golden crown, and turned it in her hands slowly; the light slid over its gleaming curves, turned its set gems and ormer to muted pearlescent rainbows. When she spoke, she sounded less angry than hurt, her voice breaking in ways Angharad had never heard. “My daughter,” she said, without looking up, “what have you to say for yourself?”

Angharad considered. What _had_ she to say? She could tell the tale from the beginning, describe Geraint and all his attributes, rail against their restrictive law, point out all the ways she had continued to fulfill her duties, give weak excuses for the carelessness that had resulted in such a scandalous outcome. But even as she opened her mouth to begin she found she had no desire to do it, no sense of obligation to bare her soul, and somehow it felt as though she must either say everything or…

“Nothing,” she declared.

Eilwen tightened her arms around her in approval as Regat stiffened and jerked her disbelieving gaze to her. Another long silence. The queen stalked to the table that held all her documents, and laid down her crown with slow, careful restraint.

“You will remain in the castle from this point forward,” she said. Her voice was tight, but it had regained its familiar tone; the one that made everything she said the final word on any matter.“Tomorrow,” she continued, “While the crowds are still assembled, I will announce the public presentation of all the enchanters who have come to seek your hand, to take place in ten days’ time. At which point you will choose one, and be wed in a fortnight.”

Angharad gasped, jerking away from Eilwen. “Ten days—but there are only two arrived. And they’re both _horrid.”_

“I will not have it known that the next heir to the throne is a—,” Regat cut herself off with effort, and took a breath. “We may hope that someone more amenable to your tastes arrives in the interim, but if you are unhappy with your choices, you have only yourself to blame for limiting the time you have.” She laid her hands heavily upon the parchments strewn over the table. “Meanwhile, no one will breathe a word of this to anyone. There will be time enough for the appropriate response and ceremony after you are properly wed. Arianrhod can instruct you enough on how to care for yourself until Branwen takes over.”

Angharad glanced at her aunt, and Arianrhod hurried over, and laid her hands on her shoulders. “Regat,” she said, “please console yourself. You know well enough that it is not the first time in our line the heir was conceived of someone other than the royal consort. Several of our greatest queens came from such unions.”

Regat frowned and did not look at them, but Angharad gave a little surprised start. “Did they?”

Arianrhod smiled down upon her with a face lined in weariness and anxiety, but her eyes were soft, and glowed with quiet happiness. “Indeed. A child born of love is doubly blessed, and the goddess has smiled upon you since the beginning, dear heart.” She bent and kissed the crown of her head. “Remember what I told you. Love is a magic all its own, as powerful as any other that we wield. Never,” she added, with a significant look at her sister, “allow yourself to reject that truth.”

Regat cast her a baleful stare. “There are other truths,” she said, “that seem to have been forgotten in this madness. The most pressing being that we are still at war with a formidable enemy, one to whom love is a meaningless word. It is rather a shame,” she admitted, with a dark frown. “If this had to happen, it would have been more useful days ago, before Achren’s treachery could take place. You could have been even more effective than she was, had we known,” she said, addressing her daughter.

“It would have been too early,” Arianrhod said. “She is a week quickened, at most; probably today was the first detectable. You know that power does not reach its full strength until a few weeks on.”

Angharad glanced from one to the other in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Eilwen patted her hand. “You’ll be a force beyond imagining, soon, that’s all,” she muttered, “a manifestation of Rhiannon herself. You could pick up the island and move it a mile out to sea if you wanted, or send a tidal wave to raze Annuvin to the ground.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” Arianrhod remarked mildly, “but certainly you’ll experience some dramatic effects — though without access to fire, I do not know what, exactly, you could have done to halt Arawn’s progress. You would have had to use an entirely different method than Achren’s. In any case what’s done is done. Certainly, the increase in your power could be helpful if he attempts a counterattack, but more importantly,” she added, with a frown, “you must protect yourself. Regat, I suggest Eilwen take Angharad’s place in any more work in which we must involve Achren. Which I hope will be limited.”

Regat had sat at the table, her proud bearing finally slumped in exhaustion. “I will put off, for now, the question of how Eilwen knows anything about this at all, which I specifically forbade,” she growled, “but yes. Achren’s chamber window opens upon the courtyard, and there is no question that she watches everything she can. It will be a miracle if she missed that performance, though whether she knows the significance of it is anyone’s guess. I would not put it past her.” She waved a hand at them wearily. “Go, all of you. I wish to be alone. Angharad, keep your peace if it comforts you. But I _will_ know who the father is, one way or another.”

Angharad, rising from the couch, froze in place. “And what will you do?”

Regat looked stony. “By law his life is forfeit.” She held up a hand to halt the outraged and anguished cries of the other women. “But I am not the monster you appear to think me. I know not yet what I will do, save that I will not completely destroy what faith you have in me—if any remains.”The imperious hand dropped once more. “Now go.”

Eilwen sprang up, and pressed a cold weight into Angharad’s hand; she looked down in surprise and saw the Pelydryn, its light gone out. Her sister pulled her up. “Come. Aunt and I will walk you to your chambers.”

Angharad stepped away and hesitated next to the table, looking down at her mother’s bent head. She wondered, suddenly, what Regat had thought when she had learned she was carrying _her_ , whether she’d been happy at all, or just resigned to her duties, perhaps relieved that she need not even pretend any longer to desire her husband’s attention. She reached out timidly to touch her mother’s hand.

Then she thought of the two men who waited like wolves for their chance at her. They were no comparison to her own father, probably, but even should a perfectly affable man walk into court tomorrow, even Gwydion himself…she shuddered. No. It was a horrible thought in every respect, even more so now, a nightmare from which she could not awaken, her mother unyielding in its enforcement. Perhaps Regat had no choice. Perhaps neither of them did. But she could not forgive it.

Angharad drew her hand back, and left the room without a backward glance.


	31. Chapter 31

_There were always those nights_

_When her mind went to war with her heart_

_The fight between what she knew, what she felt_

_And what she had to do_

_Sometimes the hardest decisions_

_Are made under the moon._

~r.h. Sin

* * *

Chapter Thirty-One

Angharad lay, staring at nothing, listening to her own breath in the silence of her chamber.

Eilwen and Arianrhod had left, very late, after getting her settled and breaking the news to Elen, who had not been able to refrain from a single, bitter “I _knew_ it,” before biting her tongue, for all appearances to keep from saying more that she might regret. She had helped ready Angharad for bed in unwonted silence, offering none of her affectionate scolding or pertness, and Angharad heard her sniffling to herself quietly throughout. She felt oddly cross about her own impulse to comfort Elen, to reach out with conciliatory words. What was there to reconcile? If anything, she herself was the one in need of comfort, but there would apparently be none forthcoming from this quarter.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she had murmured finally, when Elen moved to retire to her own chamber. The girl had paused, looking at her sadly.

“But you didn’t _not_ ,” she said, “and you’re not sorry.”

Angharad had lain back into her cushions, tempted to say something defensive, and paused to consider. “No,” she sighed, “I am not.”

Elen had taken up her candle and disappeared without further comment.

Alone in the darkness, Angharad thought, and her thoughts tangled and twisted one into another until they melted into nothing but feeling. But even feeling did not know what it wanted, and the tears that wet her pillow were mingled of grief, fear and hope.

It should not be so. A new life should be a thing only of joy. _I am inside-out,_ she thought. _Made of everything at once, and nothing._ It made her angry, but anger that, yesterday, would have set the cold embers in the hearth ablaze now simply clenched in her fists and her chest, a dark and formless vise. Fear that Geraint had returned and been captured, that even now there might be guards dragging him, bound and bewildered, before Regat, made sleep impossible. Arianrhod had promised she would stay and watch for the guards’ return, sworn she would allow nothing to happen to him. But it was cold comfort in the face of her mother’s wrath.

At some endless hour she rose, sleepless, lit the Pelydryn, and pulled her grandfather’s sheet of parchment from beneath the mattress where she had sequestered it. It was creased now from much folding and re-folding, the ink blurred in spots from the continued pass of her fingertips as she read over its scrawls, the stubborn words that would not unlock their mysteries. Of all the things that chafed at her, the helpless lack of anything to _do_ about her situation had been the worst, and it had become her nervous habit, since Geraint had gone, to ponder the pages at every opportunity, hoping that some clue to their meaning would become clear if she just meditated upon it long enough.

She traced the triple spiral with a racing heart as she read the words again, and noticed the last line with a sudden jolt that prickled over her scalp. “Cleave the tomb,” she whispered, out loud, “the fruitful womb shall bring Llyr home.”

 _Fruitful womb?_ Manifestly so, she thought, with a touch of her old irony, though really, there was nothing so surprising about it, in her line, and no reason to think the words should apply especially to her. Even Arianrhod had said it was most likely a reference to the goddess or the sea - or both. Still...the timing was...

But it made no sense. Bring Llyr home? They _were_ home. This island was their home, and it was in danger. If there was something she was meant to do about it, Rhiannon would have to do better than cryptic verses from the ramblings of a power-drunk and long-banished ancestor.

_Only the blood of Llyr could atone._

Could it even, anymore...now that the very bones of Llyr had been bound to the blood of Achren?

Angharad shivered at the thought, at the memory of her calculating glance and the cool certainty in her words, as they whispered hauntingly into her mind. _A Daughter of Llyr will sit on the throne as High Queen._ She sucked her breath in, horrified. _The next generation, perhaps...or even the next._

 _Gods._ Angharad sank back into her pillows again, pressed heavily down under a wave of bleak terror. Any future prophesied by Achren was bad enough - it had been a threat, but vague and ephemeral, a guess about that which did not exist. But now...

Now it was real, a menace that stared her in the face, reached with clutching hands for the new spark kindling within her. Driven by this prophecy, Achren would covet her child, saddle the next heir with own twisted ambitions, attempt to maneuver her like a piece in a game...and, if successful, set her on a puppet throne, and bring an entire nation to ruin through her. And how could it be stopped, now that Achren had them by the throat?

Sick fear pushed up her chest in a wave of nausea, and Angharad gasped, and clutched at her unadorned pendant with shaking hands.She rose from her bed and paced the floor, unseeing. _I will not allow it. I won’t._ The cold metal bit into her fingertips as she pressed the crescent moon against her mouth. _She’d have to kill me first. I’ll take my child away...leave the island altogether._

Geraint’s voice whispered into her memory, fervent and low. _Come away with me,_ he had said, that night she had stepped out into madness at last, dragging him with her - only a few weeks ago; how had it been such a short time? I _can make us disappear, I know how..._ She buried a bitter sob of irony in her fist. If only she had done so, then. What good had it done, staying here out of obligation to her place and position? Not one of them was better off for it.

She should have left with him when he had asked. Now he was gone, gone to the gwyllion with little hope of returning, and she would have to leave alone, to protect their child from Achren.

And what of Llyr, of her people? If she left, Eilwen would inherit the throne - an idea that almost made her laugh at its desperate absurdity. Not that Eilwen couldn’t rise to the challenge - only she’d never forgive her for it. And the island would still be in danger from Arawn, and the _Dagrau Rhiannon_ would still be lost and vulnerable, and Achren would still be here, spinning her webs. Unless...perhaps Achren would pursue her, and leave the island. That would render the people safe, at least.

But it would put her child in danger again. Achren would never stop pursuing her.

Her heart pounded like a hollow drum, somehow faraway. She felt as though she were drowning. _Belin_ , _Llyr and Rhiannon_. _I have no good choices. Only terrible ones._

For a black moment she paused by her window, and thought of the dizzying, fatal drop to the flagstones below.

It would be simple. Only conquer the fear, and in a final few seconds she could put herself and her child beyond reach of harm, to themselves or anyone else, forever. Free of Achren’s plots. Free from choosing between bad, worse, and unthinkable. A quick end.

An easier end than many were ever afforded.

She opened the casement and stared down without emotion. A few fiery sparks dotted the land beyond the castle walls, where midsummer fires still burned for late-night revelers, but here in the courtyard the festival had ended hours ago. The handful of night watchmen on the walls all had their eyes turned outward. No one would even know until morning...

She laid a trembling hand on the masonry, and sat on the edge of the sill.

“Milady!” A yelp that was almost a shriek made her start and whirl around, and the hand that had held her pendant to her lips jerked away so suddenly that the sharp-pointed horn of the crescent caught her lip and pierced it. Pain flared into her mind like a torch, pulling an ugly sound of anguish from her throat, and Elen was clutching at her, yanking her away from the window.

“What are you _doing_?” Elen gasped out,“What are you _thinking...”_

Angharad, with a strangled shriek, grappled with her, but she was divided against herself, and Elen was not her most common sparring partner for nothing. Her handmaiden knew all her weaknesses, and after a few moments of breathless struggle, the princess found herself on her knees, with her face shoved into her own mattress, her arms pinned behind her with a strength unbelievable from someone as slight as Elen. Angharad gave up, fell limp and screamed as hard as she could into the muffling feather tick. Elen burst into tears, unpinned her wrists to throw her arms around her instead, and sobbed into her shoulder.

“You wouldn’t,” she gasped,“y _ou wouldn’t_. There’s nothing that’s solved that way. Nothing as bad as that.”

Angharad sagged down to the floor, her resistance drained away. “You don’t know,” she groaned, pale as sand. “You don’t know how bad it is.”

“You said you weren’t sorry,” Elen sputtered, jerking her by the arms like a scolded child until a sound like a laugh with its throat cut out was shaken out of her.

“Sorry! I’m sorry I was born.”

“Stop it. Stop. I won’t listen to it. You _were_ born, and you’re alive and you can end that but you can’t unmake it. You’d kill us all, take the hearts of everyone who loves you. How could you even think of doing that to us? How would _he_ feel?”

He. Angharad sobbed at the very acknowledgement from Elen. “He is lost to me.”

“So if you can’t have him you’ll break him?” Elen hissed. “How is that love? If he loves you then he’d rather you were alive, even if he can’t be with you. Anything else is just those stupid romantic tragedies only men believe. You have a child to think about.”

“I _am_ thinking about her,” Angharad groaned. “She’ll be hunted by Achren all her life, Elen. Used as leverage for the throne of Prydain. She’s as good as sworn it.”

“I...” Elen released her at this, and sat back in dismay. “What does all that mean? How could—,”

Angharad shook her head wearily, leaning against her bed in exhaustion. “I told you. You don’t know how bad it is.” She held a hand to her throbbing mouth and winced at the sight of the blood on her fingers. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t see any way out that doesn’t end in...in any way that...” she trailed off, dropped her head, and was silent.

Elen sat still for a moment, then rose, padded away and came back with a wet cloth to hold against her bleeding lip. “There’s plenty I don’t know,” she muttered, “but one thing I do -you’re thinking clear as a bog right now, wrought-up with worry and excitement. Thank the gods I heard you open that casement. You get back in your bed, and don’t make another move until daylight. There’s no thought comes in the witching hour that isn’t better left until the morning.”

Angharad pulled herself up gingerly with a groan, and crawled back into bed. The burst of manic energy and fright had burned away, left her shaking, and Elen sat beside her and thrust a wine goblet into her hands. “Drink. Just a bit, though. Not good for you, now.” She watched her mistress drink, a stubborn frown on her brow. “Now you listen to me. You’re still waiting for him you sent on an important mission; he went for love of you, and it’s just pure mad nonsense to give up on him so soon - and cruel to him, to boot. As for Achren, she doesn’t know about the baby, and she’s not in charge yet, last I checked, so there’s no sense borrowing trouble. Furthermore, you’ve got two enchanters vying for a position here - and no matter how you feel about that position, you can’t argue that one of them might prove useful if he’s got the power to help somehow, and the least you could do, seems to me, is find that out. So it’s a bit premature to be thinking the only way out of your trouble is the one you can’t return from. It’s stark witless, in fact, and it’s horrid to me - did you think of that? That I’d be suspected of pushing you? Or blamed for not stopping you?”

Elen’s pale, tear stained face, and the truth of her words, smote her with reproach, the depth of her heartbreak. “Oh, _Llyr_ , Elen.” Angharad reached for her, pulled her dark head to her shoulder, and for a long time they clung and wept together, without words; there were none left. Finally Elen, sniffling, made her lie back again.

Her grandfather’s parchment still lay haphazardly on her bed and Angharad took it up to fold it. The parchment sizzled in her hands, a buzz that she felt rather than heard, startling her; she paused on the verge of tucking it away and stared at it.

She had inadvertently streaked blood from her lip across the page, and a print of dark crimson lay directly over the triple spiral. The lines of ink were glowing now, the symbol glittering like a star. Next to her, the Pelydryn, which had been dimly flickering, suddenly flared. Elen exclaimed in surprise. “What’s—,”

Angharad heard nothing more of her. She had instinctively laid her fingertip upon the glowing symbol, and in an instant her surroundings were swallowed up in blinding light. There was roaring in her ears, drowning out all other sound. She had the impression of standing in the midst of a swirling tunnel of water, and the light shone from it and through it and blazed brilliant at its far end. A desperate longing filled her, a pull like a tether that drew her forward, as though whatever lay at the end of this path were anchored to her very spirit, distant and yearning to be joined. She took a step...

...and it was gone. Elen was staring at her in the golden glow of the Pelydryn. Angharad snatched up the parchment; the symbol, marred by the dark smudge, had ceased to glow, and further proddings did nothing to repeat the performance. She hissed out a mild oath and thumped the page to her bedside table in a temper.

Elen gripped her hand. “What happened? I saw that bit glowing and then you went rigid and stared through me for a solid minute, and didn’t hear a thing I said. What were you seeing?”

“I don’t know. Water and light in some sort of tunnel, or...or path. One I wanted to follow, but couldn’t.” Angharad dabbed at her lip again, thoughtfully. “The first dream I had about all this...it was after I’d cut my hand, and gotten blood on the spellbook. Now blood on the symbol. Always blood magic. _The blood of Llyr_...” she muttered. “I wish I knew what it meant. What I am supposed to do.”

Elen sighed. “Right now, you’re supposed to be resting. You’ll be the death of me the next nine months.”

Angharad lay back soberly, averting her eyes from Elen’s appraising glare. The girl’s impassioned lecture had brought her back from the brink of her madness, but not from her resolve.

It was true enough that it was too soon to give up on Geraint. She would wait for him, and for whatever he discovered, and meanwhile she would learn as much as possible of those who had come to court her favor, and she would guard herself from Achren. She would do what she could, not to leave the island helpless.

But if it came to leaving, if she had to leave to protect the child...nothing must hinder her from it.

She rolled over in bed, turning her face from the light of the Pelydryn, and it dimmed and went out. “I’m all right, Elen. Thank you.”

Elen snorted wearily. “I don’t believe you. How am I supposed to sleep, after this?”

“Lie down here where you can’t miss me if it makes you feel better.”

“Belin,” Elen muttered, and crawled into bed next to her, settling against her back. “You’ll tell me if you have any more such fits, before it gets so bad, won’t you?”

“Mmmph,” Angharad mumbled noncommittally, but she reached back and squeezed her hand. Silence fell, full and thick, and she knew from the tension and quiver in her body that Elen was still crying silently in the darkness. Elen would never forgive her for leaving, either.

 _You’d kill us all, take the hearts of everyone who loves you_. Suddenly the angry red crescent-shaped brand on Geraint’s chest stole into her mind’s eye, hovered there like an accusation.

 _I will burn everyone who loves me, in the end,_ she thought, miserably, _one way or another._

_They should have named me something else._

She must have slept at last, for the noise of the door opening woke her, and Angharad sat up in confusion as her mother entered the room without ceremony. Elen was nowhere to be seen, and the door shut behind the queen, the two of them facing one another alone.

She knew, instantly, by the cool frustration in her mother’s stance, that the guards had returned without Geraint, and she blurted out a strange broken cry of relief.

“I told you he was gone,” she said, and the queen’s impassive face twitched. Regat took from beneath her arm a bundle of fabrics and shook them out to show her a familiar rough tow-linen shirt and patched leggings. She held them up distastefully.

“This, Angharad? You betray your lineage for such coarse and common—,”

Angharad threw back the bedclothes, leapt up and snatched the items away, clutched them to her breast in outrage. “Don’t you dare say it. You know nothing of him, of who or what he is. How _dare_ you accuse me of betrayal after what you’ve done?”

The queen went white, and took a quick step back, then flushed at her own weakness. “He may be gone for now,” she said, low and dangerous, “but no man of such limited means leaves his possessions behind without intending to return. Did you think I would not know?”

Angharad turned away to hide her alarm. “It had nothing to do with you. I did not send him away out of shame or fear. But I have no assurance that he will return.” She sank to her couch. “Waste all the guards you like, watching for a man who poses no threat to us while you host Achren within our very walls. If he does come back, you can drag him here in chains when he would have willingly come on invitation, but then you’ll have been successful in one thing at least.”

There was a crackle of heat in the room, an angry flash, and Angharad would have flinched, before, but now she felt no fear, only a reckless amazement that she had spoken to her mother in such a fashion. She waited, in stony silence, for a rebuke, but it did not come. The flicker of heat faded, and a tense, melancholy stillness took its place.

“Angharad,” Regat breathed, a strained and broken word.

_Llyr. If she tries to cajole me now..._

“What do you know of the men who have come to court me?” Angharad asked sharply. From the corner of her eye she saw her mother stiffen in surprise.

“A little. Lord Grimgower comes from a family stronghold near the Preseli Hills. An old house, with a somewhat...questionable past.” She shook her head doubtfully. “There have been branches that dealt deeply in dark magic. He would bear watching. But they are allied with the southern cantrevs of Prydain, and have been of some service to the High King in recent times. I suspect they will look upon a marriage alliance with another power friendly to the Sons of Don as a move that will continue to heal their reputation.”

Angharad resisted an impulse to snort. “I see. And the fat one?”

“Gildas, of the House of Glynn, from Pwyll’s domain in the north. He recently came into an inheritance, from what I hear, and has enjoyed a rapid rise in prominence and favor. He looks to be the sort to curry it wherever he can, and I must say I find his preening repulsive. But I know nothing of his powers. If they prove more impressive than he currently seems...” the queen shrugged, “it would not be the first time such a thing occurred. I do hope, for your sake and the kingdom’s, that we have better options by the time of the ceremony.”

Angharad clutched Geraint’s shirt to her face, and breathed in the lingering smell of him, sun and salt, marsh-grass and the smoke from his turf-fire. “So do I,” she murmured.

In the end, it might not matter. But...

“So do I,” she whispered again...a plea to the listening air.


	32. Chapter 32

_It is_

_Perhaps_

_My greatest fear_

_That when we_

_No longer exist_

_In these bodies_

_I will not be able_

_To find you again._

_~tkw_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Two

His boat, of course, was gone.

The narrow strip of beach at the foot of the cliffs had afforded little in terms of protective places to secure it, and though he had done his best, anchoring it to a jagged boulder in a hollow as far up the sand as he could, Geraint had not anticipated leaving it there for a fortnight. One or two days and it might have held, but the small craft and insufficient mooring was no match for the dozens of high tides that must have transpired in his absence — not to speak of more tremors that may have happened in the meantime. He stared at the empty sand, bereft of so much as a splinter of his transport, and silently cursed the gwyllion, the earthquakes, and the...no.

Not the sea.

He sighed, and turned his feet to the south.

The island seemed much bigger, traveling by land. He set his mind on Eilwen’s declaration that it was a two-day journey, though he had his doubts; after all none of the island’s inhabitants had need to measure a distance they were forbidden to travel, but if anyone knew, it would be the Daughters who ruled it. Nevertheless, if he marched always south, he was sure to come out somewhere near his intended destination sooner or later - hopefully the former, since he was out of food, and hopefully in enough time for his information to be of some use, if it were at all. He could not be quite sure, nor did he know whether Angharad would approve of the bargain he had struck. It had seemed, at the time, perfectly reasonable; brilliant, even, in the breadth of solution it offered. Now he thought upon it and wondered at his own confidence at something that sounded so fantastic, so beyond the pale; perhaps it had been a trick of the fae, the ulterior motive of the gwyllion all along, and he had doomed the island to an enchantment and entanglement that might only make matters worse. But it was no use fretting about it now. He had the answers, or at least some of them; what the enchantresses of Llyr did with them was their own decision.

And so he walked determinedly, swiftly, glancing and then staring hard, at times, at his surroundings, with a growing sense of bewilderment. Things looked...or felt...different, in a way difficult to pinpoint. Occasionally a boulder seemed to loom into his peripheral vision at an odd angle, but lay ordinary and innocuous when he turned his startled eyes toward it. A patch of moss or a tuft of brush that caught his attention, the way a window in a wall draws the eye, on further investigation bore no apparent difference from those surrounding it, yet it pricked at his consciousness, made him look again, and again, never quite satisfying him, as though its very ordinariness was a thin veneer over something strange and eldritch.

The perception dawned on him so slowly that he could not be sure it was real, and even as it continued, he questioned his senses, tried to push it from his mind. Nothing, it was nothing...but there it was _again_ , an itch at the edge of his sight, a glimmering in places that had no business doing so. He began to glare rather irritably at such anomalies, suspecting that he was once again the target of some fairy prank. Hadn’t they had their fill of sporting with him yet? If they were going to call his attention to various bits of landscape they might alert him of something useful, at the very least, like a patch of edible mushrooms. He sustained himself upon handfuls of green blackberries that grew in profusion, comforted by the notion that if they were enchanted they’d be riper and taste better, and steadfastly ignored the strangeness.

By midday he noted in relief that the phenomena dwindled in frequency as the hills began to flatten, and gradually as the land sloped into gentle and grazed fields the oddities became very rare indeed. By early afternoon they had ceased altogether, a cessation he suspected coincided with his leaving the forbidden quarter and its unseen inhabitants well behind, though there had been no obvious boundary.

He walked until darkness fell, and was cheered by the sight of lights on the horizon; too far-off to be dwellings where he might beg a night’s lodging but signs of habitation at least. He slept in the lee of a boulder in the summer warmth, and was up before dawn the next morning, keeping the pale light at his left hand. Passing within sight of the odd cluster of cottages or sprawling farmhouse, he kept to himself, though tempted to beg a day’s bread; if he stopped anywhere in such remote locations where travelers were no doubt novelties, he would be obliged to tarry and explain himself. Better to tighten his belt and keep marching; his cottage held food stores, and Angharad was waiting for him.

 _Angharad_. It could not be said that his step quickened automatically every time he thought of her, for she never left his mind, but when he pictured her there in the cove, waiting at his hut, his heart skipped a beat and his feet seemed to chase after it, for a moment, until he reminded himself sternly that the odds of her being present when he arrived there were very low. Still, he would see her soon. _Soon_. Had she really gone every day to look for him, as she had said? How it must be worrying her, his being gone so much longer than they had all anticipated. Suppose it had been even longer than a fortnight; he had only guessed by the moon, after all; suppose it had been a month, or a whole year, or...or a hundred years, as in the story, while he stood trapped in the netherworld of Pentre Gwyllion. He paled at the thought, feeling suddenly nauseous, stopped stock still and shook himself. No, it could not have been so long; for one thing, here he was, ill-groomed but apparently not significantly older than he had been when he’d gone in. And besides, the gwyllion would never have let him go on a bargain they knew could not be filled. And no matter how long it had been, there was nothing to do but go on.

He thought, as he marched, of what he had learned, the tapestry that had been woven for him; he shook it and spread it out within his mind, marveling at the story it told, fumbling for words to match its colors. It had felt like a living thing as the gwyllion had woven it, a creation that breathed and grew of its own accord, and he felt, with a pang, that it would be somehow paler upon his lips, and that he was an unworthy messenger of so much magic. But it played in his mind, a story worth the telling, a riddle worth the answer, and he wondered what they would do with it.

Evening fell, and a velvet night, and he walked on under the stars until the ground became rough, wishing he had a Pelydryn of his own to light the way. Exhausted, he slept on the flat turf and dreamed of the sea, a blue eternity, stretching from one end of the earth to the other, and a white ship upon it, shining like a pearl, with a dark-haired captain at its helm, a star bound to his brow.

He awoke to a grey mist that promised rain, and trotted southward as quickly as he could, waylaying a shepherd boy over the next hill to inquire how far he was from Abernant. The lad gaped in astonishment, but motioned south, stuttering something in the range of “two hours or so” once he came to the coast and followed it. Geraint thanked him and went on with renewed vigor. He was rewarded by the sky breaking upon him the moment he came in sight of the thin blue line of sea over the edge of land, and realized that before he found any shelter he would be as wet as he could possibly get anyway, so he might as well keep walking. Grumbling, he turned and followed the coastline, wishing he had the power to dry himself with a word. Or do anything magical at all, for that matter.

Dangerous thoughts lay in that direction, thoughts he had suppressed for days, but whether from hunger or weariness or cold rain or some combination of all of it he did not have the strength to resist them now, andthey settled like a dark thundercloud over his spirit. He wondered, tortuously, about the faceless men who might, even now, be gathering at Caer Colur, vying for Angharad’s hand. What great powers would they display, what mysterious wonders, what arts that made them eligible to stand beside her, officially sanctioned by law and tradition? And once she had been forced to choose one of them, sworn an oath, duty-bound, to another man...where did that leave him?

How long could he stay here, only to be with her in stolen moments, both of them living a lie, possibly a dangerous one - cuckolding an enchanter was undoubtedly risky despite Angharad’s protection, and it was an abhorrent idea in any case, an insult against his every notion of honesty and honor. The last few weeks with her had been madness, an ecstatic delirium, but it was all fire and fury; it was no foundation to build a life upon. She had said it herself, that night of the storm: there was no future here for the two of them.

Yet what future was bearable without her?

He grit his teeth to keep from groaning aloud, as the memory of her farewell to him pressed itself into his mind; her charge to him; his fervent vow to return to her, the tears she had wept and the arms that had held him fast. If staying was unthinkable, leaving her was more unthinkable still. And so he would be held here, bound by a spell stronger than magic, where he might see her from a distance but never touch her, meet her in public as a stranger and a subject while his heart consumed itself for want of her, watch her bear another’s children while his own remaining years stretched out, alone and barren and unfulfilled.

If the island could be saved, that is. Suppose it were not - suppose his journey and his quest came to nothing, that the information he carried was useless, and that the Daughters’ best efforts failed to defend their land against Arawn. If Llyr itself were lost, the island, its people, and its House - crumbled into the sea, wouldn’t that set her free from all obligation, if only she survived it —

He stopped himself in horror that he could entertain, even for an instant, the thought of such loss for his own gain, and wrested his mind from the dark spaces it had begun to slide into. He quickened his pace, trotting through the rain, as though perhaps he could outdistance his own baser instincts, leave behind all memory of such capability, afraid to examine its implications in full. But the shame of it drove him forward, and when the thatched roofs of Abernant came into view he abandoned his original intention to stop there, skirting them with a sharp stab of lingering guilt, and marched on toward the cove.

The familiar cliffs rose into view and he sighed with relief, suddenly crushingly weary. For all that he was used to travel and exposure, and enjoyed a starry roof over a couch of green-smelling turf, there was nothing quite like a real bed and shelter - especially in such weather. The downpour that had begun that morning had slowed to a cold and relentless drizzle, and he thought longingly of the cosiness of his tiny hut, his supply of food...and the anticipation of company.

There it was; his own cottage, he was home. Geraint paused, at the mouth of the downward path into the cove, to examine the phrase in some surprise. He had never had his own dwelling, not since he had set his foot out of his father’s house and not looked back; he had wandered a vagabond ever since, and the excitement and adventure of it had pleased him, but never had it given him such an odd little thrill of pride and comfort as did the sight of the thatched roof in the cleft below. Yes, despite his misgivings and doubts, he had come to call it _home_ , in his heart if not in words, and the knowledge twisted at his heart. His home? Yes, for all intents...but not hers.

Imagine if she were waiting there for him, beside a warm hearth, to welcome him as he had seen his mother welcome his father home after a journey, to spend an evening in the joy of reunion, in laughter and love and the light of her smile...

But no smoke rose from his chimney, and the windows were shuttered. He trudged down the path heavily. Heart thudding, he pushed his door open, and the wan light of the wet afternoon pushed feebly into the chill darkness of the interior.

Setting his pack on the floor, he crossed to the hearth and busied himself with flint and tinder, shivering while he tended the sparks until a respectable flame licked its way through kindling, caught and blazed with a promising crackle. Only once the dried turf burned reliably did he rise and strip off his wet clothes, wring them out and hang them on nails protruding from the rafters. He danced before the small flames to dry himself, and crossed to the shelf in the corner where he kept his meager stash of spare garments.

And paused there in confusion, blinking at the space in the dim light. His spare clothing was gone.

He looked about the room, bewildered, and realized, for the first time, that his hut was, in various small ways, not as he had left it. He had little in the way of furnishings, but what he had were not in their places. Various of his tools that were normally propped in the corner, or hanging from the rafters, were missing.

He stood in the middle of the room, hair prickling eerily. Someone had been here, presumably not Angharad nor the other women in her confidence - what need would they have of his clothing or tools? Why would they have disturbed them? But why would anyone else come at all? A thief, he supposed, with a surge of indignation - a thief, in his home, helping himself to his hard-earned belongings; let the culprit return and he’d get more than he bargained for! Yet what an odd assortment of things had been taken. His bedding had been left behind, thank goodness; Geraint wrapped himself in his woolen blanket and threw more turf on the fire, willing his garments to dry faster.

The thief had evidently not been hungry enough to search for food; his store of salted fish, dried mushrooms, turnips and other provision was untouched, in the tiny root cellar he had dug in the corner near the door. He cooked, and ate, wondering all the while, feeling as though the last several days - or weeks? - of his life had been an exceedingly strange dream. Indeed he would have been tempted to believe it really _was_ a dream, but for the silver pendant that still dangled from his neck, and the white scar on his breast beneath it.

The drum of the rain, a long-empty belly finally filled, and the long journey had predictable effects; long before the grey day had worn away into darkness, he had dropped to his pallet, and knew nothing more until the morning.

A shout from outdoors woke him, and he sat up in confusion; it was not Angharad’s voice but a man’s...no, a woman’s...several voices, in fact, that he knew at once, and he scrambled up, snatching his clothes from their hooks over the hearth and hurriedly wrestling them on, shouting that he’d be out in a moment. There was a scuffling at his door, boys’ voices laughing, a muffled cry of “Storyteller! Are you awake?”, and Nia Tanner’s scolding.

“Boys! Get you away from his door! Poor man has a right not to have his own house invaded by hooligans. He’ll open it in his own good time.”

Geraint threw the door open with an astonished laugh, and Marlen and Maddox tumbled in like puppies, shouting greetings. Behind them, Mawrth and Nia were approaching, looking mildly exasperated, but glad to see him. “A good morning to you, I hope, Geraint of Gellau,” the tanner called out.

Geraint untangled himself from the clinging boys and strode forward, clasping them both by the hands in turn. “And to you! Well met, my friends - a surprise, indeed.”

Nia grinned, reached up and chucked his unshaven chin. “Look at you. As wild as a highland Alban. That’s what comes of living alone. When were you going to come visit again?”

He laughed, self-deprecating. “I should have, long since...but what brings you out so early?”

“It’s on our way,” said Mawrth, his blue eyes crinkling warmly in his lined face. He reached into a pack slung from his shoulder, and drew out a bundle. “Wanted to bring these to you, since we were passing.”

Geraint took the bundle and unrolled it to reveal two tanned rabbit skins, golden-brown fur and supple-suede hide, as butter-soft as anything one might wish to wrap around a newborn infant. His heart stopped for an instant, and he opened his mouth to thank them, and found he could not speak around the choking tightness in his throat. He stood, almost frozen, staring at the skins, until he was pummeled from behind by one of the boys.

“Maddox Tanner, you ruffian!” Nia pounced on her sons and yanked them away for a dressing-down, and Geraint, broken from his trance, caught Mawrth’s curious and concerned glance, coughed, and stammered out his thanks.

“‘Twas nothing.” The tanner waved a brown hand. “All the boys’ work. Sorry for the roughhousing. We’re on the way to the castle for the betrothal, and they’re as frantic as netted fish.”

Geraint felt his scalp crinkle. Dread settled in his spirit, a stone to drag him to earth. “Betrothal?”

“Aye, for the Princess Angharad.” Mawrth slung his pack back over his shoulder. “She’s to be wed in a few days, and everyone’s invited as can manage the trip. Better than a festival. Come with us, if you like. You’ve been living here all summer but never seen Caer Colur, have you?”

“I...” Geraint searched for words, but they fled from him, and abruptly he stepped around Mawrth and toward the beach, staring out upon the blue expanse of water, his ears filled with a roaring that had nothing to do with the thunder of the surf. He heard his own voice stammer over the pounding of his heart. “I thought...that is, I had heard rumor that she...she would marry at the end of the summer.”

Mawrth grunted. “Pushed up, for some reason; maybe she’s settled on someone sooner than expected. That’s part of the spectacle, you know, there’ll be a ceremony tomorrow for her suitors to present themselves; all enchanters of one sort or another, so it’ll be a good show, they say.” Geraint saw him shrug from the corner of his eye. “Anyway, Nia insisted we go. Likes a day off, now and then, and the chance doesn’t come often.”

Geraint clutched the rabbit skins in his hands until his knuckles went white, trying to think of something that might sound like an ordinary response. Nothing came to him; his mind tumbled over itself in a confused and tormented snarl of tangled thoughts.

Mawrth was a concerned shadow at his elbow. “Here, now. Something frets you, lad?”

Geraint looked at him, and opened his mouth, closed it again. Mawrth’s puzzled frown scanned his face, and dropped to the crescent moon that still dangled over his breastbone, plainly displayed between the strings of the neckline he had not thought to tie.

Geraint moved instinctively to hide it, too late. The tanner stared, from the pendant to his face and back again, with an expression of the kind of bafflement born less of confusion than the inability to believe the truth.

“Is that...,” Mawrth mumbled faintly.

Geraint thought, briefly, of lying - claiming he had found the pendant, or stolen it - but knew at the same moment it would sound even more ludicrous than the truth. No mere man could steal a thing from Angharad of Llyr, even if he wanted to, and no one knew that more than the people of this island.

He dropped his concealing hands in surrender. “Yes,” he whispered, “it is.”

He offered nothing by way of explanation or excuse. Mawrth’s sea-blue eyes searched his face keenly, and then looked beyond him, out to the water. “Well,” the older man said, in a bewildered tone, and then, again, “well. Hm.”

Maddox and Marlen were running along the waterline, tossing pebbles into the small breakers, while Nia trailed behind them, her skirts kilted up, tucking washed-up kelp into a knapsack. Geraint watched them, wondering, against his own will, what it would look like, how it would be, if the children were his own, if the woman were—

“By the _tides_ , lad,” Mawrth blurted out, in a low and fervent mutter. “When Nia kept after you to take up with an island girl, she didn’t mean aiming straight for the throne. What have you been about?”

“I didn’t plan it,” Geraint stammered, and fumbled with the chain at his neck, unclasping it and clutching the pendant in his fist. “Neither of us did. It all began innocently enough. We met by accident when she came here to gather things for their rituals and...and...” he shrugged helplessly, dropped to the boulder where she always sat, and ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “She liked my stories.” His voice broke. “She loves my stories, Mawrth.”

“Hunh,” Mawrth grunted, looking at him with mingled awe and skepticism, that changed, over a few silent seconds, into pity. “So much that she gave you that treasure, there? Must be some stories.”

“There have been many,” Geraint murmured, “but there is one I still must tell her.” His fist clenched around the crescent until the horns bit into his fingers. “The most important one of all.”

Mawrth shook his head. “You’ll never get an audience. No one sees a Daughter the week of her wedding except those in the ceremonies themselves. The Hall will be full of courtiers for the presentation; we’ll be lucky to get a spot in the courtyard.” He rubbed his chin, looking wry. “I suppose you’re determined to tell her _before_ she’s married.”

Geraint flinched at the thought. “Only because I think I am unlikely to see her again, after that.” He turned the pendant over in his hand, watched the sunlight tease sparks from the gem. “I must return this to her. It was no gift for my possession, but a charge and a token.”

“But how did you not know about the betrothal?” Mawrth pressed. “Surely she told you.”

“I have been away since before full moon,” Geraint answered, “on a mission for her. When I left, there was no such plan. Not until summer’s end.”

Another silence fell, punctuated by a vague grunt from Mawrth. Geraint could not help wishing the man was gone, that they were all gone, that he could be alone for one blessed hour and give full vent to the storm brewing in his breast. But there was no time - not for lament, not for rage, not for grief - only for how he might fulfill the charge Angharad had laid upon him.

The shouts of the boys fell upon his ears again and he looked at them, young and beautiful in their exultation; Nia, laughing at their exuberance, her figure straight and strong and her hair fluttering in the wind off the water. He turned away, in despair, from the vision of that which could never be, and filled his eyes with the one before him. This family; this, and so many others - all lived on an island whose uncertain future rested upon the edge of knowledge only he currently possessed.

Painfully he wrestled down his grief. Angharad was as good as lost to him, and there would be time enough to mourn her; all the rest of his life, and every life after, perhaps. But now...

Geraint stood up, and turned to Mawrth. “I will come,” he said quietly, “but say nothing of any of this to Nia. I would that my real purpose stays hidden, and the fewer are aware of it, the less trouble it may be for all.”

Mawrth nodded. “You’re welcome with us, no matter your purpose. But good Llyr, lad, what do you think you’ll be able to do?”

“I’m not sure,” Geraint admitted, “but I won’t find a way to do it by staying here.”

He returned to his hut, gathered up his pack, and filled it with provisions from his food stores, mechanically packing while his mind raced. Angharad’s words played in his memory; her white face and blazing, commanding eyes. _You must not come to the castle._

He had acquiesced. But that was before. She would not come here again, and he had no way of knowing if Eilwen or Arianrhod would visit in her stead. If he were to fulfill his quest, he must break his word to her, go to the place she had forbidden. There was no other way, and yet even there, how was he to reach her? A traveling bard might beg hospitality at any castle gate, but he was no such thing, no matter his talents, no matter what festivities were at hand.

Festivities. A betrothal. What had Mawrth said? _There’ll be a ceremony tomorrow, for her suitors to present themselves._

Geraint paused, breathless. For her suitors to present themselves. Part of the spectacle. All enchanters. _It’ll be a good show_.

A spark of hope flared in his heart, trembling, and he wrapped the jeweled pendant and tucked it into his tunic, secure, resolved.

Yes. It would be a good show. The greatest performance of his life. And, quite possibly, the last.


	33. Chapter 33

_She begged the stars to keep the night_

_But they were fire_

_And she was dust_

_And the earth spun_

_And the dawn came anyways._

~Atticus

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Three

Royal regalia — a sparkling pile of silver and pearl, abalone and opal — spread across her dressing table like so much treasure dredged up from a wreck. Angharad sat before it, gazing at it without admiration, willing herself to be still though all she wanted was to hurl every glittering fetter across the room, smash it into the stone wall, possibly followed by her own head, if she could manage it. Elen stood behind her, twisting her hair into an elaborate system of coils and curls, fastening jewels into the bright waves at intervals.

Eilwen stood at her window, looking down upon the courtyard. She was arrayed in the ceremonial garments of her rank: clinging white linen, embroidered and girdled in silver, herarms and flushed expanse of neck and bosom adorned in coral ornaments.Blue and turquoise gems glimmered in her dark hair. Ordinarily she wore formality with an amused air that made her awareness of her own beauty and its effect on those within sight of her evident, but now she was frowning, her foot tapping in a miniature expression of the tension in the room.

“So many people,” she muttered, “and so few enchanters. It doesn’t seem possible, somehow.”

Angharad grimaced. “It’s no worse than it has been since the beginning. Better the monster you know that the one you don’t.” She looked at her manicured nails, tapping on the tabletop, and felt oddly as though they belonged to someone else.

“I can’t believe it, though,” Eilwen persisted, “and it makes me suspicious. There _must_ have been more, and something happened to prevent them. Some mishap on the journey, or some dark plot to—,”

Angharad sensed Elen move sharply, and glanced up into her mirror in time to see the fleeting remnant of a significant look that had passed between servant and sister. She turned her eyes away from it dully, relegating the emotion it spawned to the same confined and bound space that she forced her physical discomfort to stay, when she could.

It was pointless to avoid the subject of dangerous journeys when it was forefront in all their minds, yet no one wanted to acknowledge the truth: Geraint had been gone over two full weeks - his continued absence confirmed by her mother’s own guards, who were sent out periodically to see whether the cove was still uninhabited. Never had days groaned past so interminably while rushing, all the same, like sand grains through an hourglass, every one carrying with it a fragment of her hope...if she could be said to hope at all for him, when escaping from the gwyllion and coming home meant falling into her mother’s trap. She had wracked her brain trying to think of a way to warn him away from his own hut without alerting the queen, and come up empty. Arianrhod and Eilwen had attempted magical protections of their own, but as he remained invisible to their scrying, their abilities were hampered, and every day that went by made it less likely he would ever return at all.

They had been dark days. By daylight she had buried her grief under a thick veil of nothingness that wrapped her heart like armor. But nights were endless torment, when all distractions were stripped away and an awful future stretched ahead of her, a path she must walk alone. She wept until she had no tears left. She ceased to hope that he would return and only begged for assurance that he was alive, petitioned every deity she knew for some sign that she had not sent him to his doom, sought answers in magic and vision and dream but found only the same elusive mysteries. Elen, vigilant, slept beside her every night, and more than once Angharad had looked upon the sleeping face of her familiar, faithful companion and almost resented her for preventing the swift end she had contemplated.

She had learned to control her revulsion when she looked upon the distant faces of the two men who had remained the only contenders for her hand, and given up wondering why no one else came. She felt now, on the surface, nothing at all when she thought of them, except a calculated acknowledgment that her decision must be wholly practical, based on who brought the most useful skills to the table.

Of Regat she had seen little, beyond court appearances. Eilwen’s reports had filled in the details of goings-on beyond the walls of her confinement; there were still meetings in secret with Achren, who had naturally expressed surprise at the change in company, but, to all appearances, coolly accepted the explanation that Angharad was preparing for her wedding, and the rituals and traditions involved made her unavailable for other spellwork. There seemed, indeed, little other work necessary; so far Arawn had not shown any sort of retaliatory move after Achren’s repulse.

“She’s empty as a dry sponge,” Eilwen had summed up, with a disgusted twist of her mouth, after her first encounter. “I would call her a snake, but even snakes have their good points. I never saw anyone with so much wasted power. Nothing but death where there should have been so much life. It would make me sorry for her if she didn’t seem to revel in it.” She had shivered, and made the crescent sign in a protective gesture. “Even Mother knows inviting her was the worst idea she’s ever had, but she can’t admit it now.”

They all knew, and silently despaired over it, though Achren remained apparently content to stay sequestered in her quarters, and made no move to exert what could have, now, been considerable influence. That very circumstance was worrisome — it seemed out of character for a woman so ambitious, yet she could hardly be accused of nefarious plotting when she never made any trouble or went anywhere, a thing confirmed by the elite guard assigned to her door.

But Angharad had little energy to spare on Achren. It was, perhaps, ironically helpful that she had begun to feel too exhausted, physically, to give much vent to her emotions. She had nearly fallen asleep during a court session four days previous, barely keeping her eyes open to the end before stumbling up to her chamber and throwing herself on her bed, waking two hours later feeling nauseous and no more alert. Even now, sitting at her dressing table, she felt an urge to lay her head among the cold and comfortless jewels of her station and sleep, heedless of the damage to her dressed hair and formal gown. Instead she closed her eyes, pulling her consciousness to some deep place within, and let herself drift in the fluid darkness that waited there - a presence that had crept upon her awareness within the last week, strange and new, but safe and comforting, a sensation hard enough to find these days. It was magic, obviously, but no sort of magic she had ever accessed before, and Arianrhod had nodded knowingly when she had attempted to describe it.

“The presence of Rhiannon. Spend all the time you like there,” she had said, the weary lines around her eyes deepening in sympathy. “Embrace all she gives you, and you’ll know what to do with it when the time comes.”

She was drawn out of it, now, by a knock at the door, and sensed both her companions’ stiffening before she even saw that the queen had entered the room, with Arianrhod just behind. Elen dropped into a curtsy and retreated to the background, as the princess rose slowly to her feet. The weight of her gown, full layer upon layer of jeweled silk, seemed to pin her to the ground.

Regat was robed in crimson, her handsome head crowned in gold. She looked, behind the ceremonial poise of her practiced expression, tired - the weariness of one who does what must be done, but takes no pleasure in it. Her dark eyes surveyed her eldest daughter, mingled resolution with resignation. It was an expression not without compassion, but Angharad found nothing comforting in it.

“It is nearly time,” Regat said, “and all are assembled.” She tilted her head in mild concern. “How do you feel?”

Angharad almost laughed at the weight of the question, but only blinked, staring at her mother. “Does it matter?”

The queen’s mouth pressed into a thin line, acknowledging the ruefulness she would not admit out loud. “You’re a little pale. Nothing that will be noticed in the Hall, but I would not have you faint or be sick during the ceremony. Can you withstand it?”

“I’m taking care of that,” Eilwen put in, coming up to stand next to her and sliding an arm around her waist. “She’s to signal me if she needs her salts or ginger, or a quick charm. We’ve practiced until we can make it look insignificant.”

Regat looked mildly surprised. “Good. See that you are paying attention to your sister, then, and not the audience of young men present.”

Eilwen huffed as though insulted at this perfectly apt admonition, and Angharad leaned into her, a glimmer of grateful amusement sparking up through the fog.

“I will speak little during the presentation,” Regat went on, to Angharad, “for all must see you take full authority. If you see any of them appeal to me instead, correct them. It is your decision - though I will advise if you request it.” She hesitated, but did not break her gaze, and said, finally, “I know you will choose wisely.”

There was a brief and heavy silence, and Arianrhod approached and stood before her. She straightened the circlet crowning Angharad’s bright hair, rearranged a tumbled curl at her neck, pulled a fold of her gown into a better place, briefly took hold of her bare shoulders, all the while murmuring under her breath. She paused in her chanting to look Angharad in the eyes, and laid one warm hand over the crescent moon at her breast. “Breathe,” she whispered, a quiet command, and Angharad realized she had not been, and obeyed, in a deep release. It threatened to topple the gates of her self-control; every roiling emotion strained against them and her throat tightened, eyes burned. She tensed and trembled, but Arianrhod shook her head, ordered “again”, and inhaled with her, slow and controlled. A comforting warmth spread from the hand still resting over the pendant, soothing, and gradually her trembling eased, tension draining away, until she stood, not stiff and afraid, but quietly, accepting and open.

Arianrhod kissed her brow and stepped back, her eyes full of a sad sort of pride. “Now she is ready.”

They filed from the chamber, Elen bringing up the end of the procession; all were expected to witness the ceremony, and they walked the corridors in silence broken only by the swish of long skirts and the soft brush of slippered feet on the stone floors. Angharad thought dazedly that the castle seemed larger than usual, that the distance from her room to the Great Hall took more steps than it should. The closer they came to the Hall, the further removed she felt from the proceeding, until when they finally arrived and stepped into the noise and color of the gathered assembly she felt as though she were watching someone else enter the room and stand before the throne at her mother’s right hand, someone in whose fate she took only a detached and mildly curious interest.

The gathered throng moved before her eyes in a blur. She saw the occasional individual face she recognized; there were her cousins, Oren and Manawydd, serving as acolytes; Elen was stationed with her mother’s ladies near the foot of the dais; off to the right, among the crowd of courtiers and dignitaries, the dark head and strong posture of Lady Amynwy towered above the short and innocuous figure of Lord Pwyll.

Regat raised her hands and the general buzz that had attended their entry lapsed into a respectful silence. She spoke, a formal welcome to all assembled, acknowledgement of the gravity of the occasion, expressions of hope and assurance that the marriage of the princess would contribute to the continued prosperity and stability of the island. Angharad fixed her eyes on a window high in the far wall, tracing its arches with the critical attention of a master mason, and let the words pour over her without sinking into her consciousness; she feared, if she listened to such hollow speeches, her expression would betray her.

And so it began. Amidst a collective sigh of anticipation, Regat sank gracefully to her throne and Angharad followed suit. A shimmer of musical fanfare preceded the announcement of Gildas of Glynn, and Angharad wondered, in that detached portion of her mind, how he had managed to be presented first, when he’d arrived second; perhaps he and Grimgower had drawn straws for the privilege. A mental image of the two men bent over a straggly broom, murderously eyeing each other while they yanked at its twigs, almost made her lose her composure. She clutched the arm of her throne and concentrated on breathing slowly as the crowd parted to admit the enchanter and his entourage.

If Gildas’s display of wealth had been ostentatious at the midsummer feast, it was now nothing less than absurd. The entire royal treasury of a well-to-do cantrev king appeared to have been hung upon the person of one man and his dozen attendants, with no thought spared for aesthetic balance. Angharad mused viciously that it must be a blessing for the man to be nearly as broad as he was tall, for it afforded him that much more surface area to adorn and encrust with jewels. She had to give him credit for his audacity; it took a fair amount of brazen confidence to appear in public so arrayed — unless it was just sheer lack of taste, which, she thought, staring at his self-satisfied expression, was also quite possible.

A ripple of awed murmur at the scene spread through the crowd as the procession reached the dais, and Gildas bowed, with the air of doing something beneath him. His attendants spread out, flanking him in a semicircle, glittering in the shafts of sunlight pouring in from the windows. He rose, and for the first time, dared to look the monarchs of Llyr in the face - a concession granted for the occasion, given his potential station. Angharad met his pale, fishy eyes coolly, and noted that his gaze lingered longer over the jewelry she wore than on any portion of her face or figure. The distant observer in her could not decide whether to be relieved, amused, or indignant about this.

She nodded her head at him. “I bid you welcome, sir.”

His paunchy, shining cheeks twitched in what attempted, she supposed, to be a smile. “Noblest ladies,” he began, spreading his hands to indicate all the royal family assembled on the dais, “allow me to dispense with the formalities. I have already spent many days here, enjoying your excellent hospitality but having no opportunity to make a formal introduction. Therefore I assume my reputation has preceded me. I trust we may promptly negotiate, determine, and settle upon the nuptial agreements.”

Angharad sensed Regat twitch next to her at this audacity, and regarded the man with quiet amazement. She raised an eyebrow. “You appear to be in some haste, Gildas of Glynn.”

Gildas looked startled for an instant, but recovered. “Not at all, your highness. I only observe that this is a busy and thriving court, most...ah, prosperous.” His gaze flicked covetously around the room. “And of course I appreciate the demands upon your time - as surely you must on mine. Indeed, only with greatest difficulty have I been able to spare a few moments from an especially busy morning.”

“Really?” Angharad remarked. “That is extraordinary, given that presumably you have traveled here for the sole purpose of participating in this ceremony. Your skills must indeed be of great consequence for this occasion to be such a troublesome interruption of their exercise. We do apologize for the inconvenience.”

A titter ran through the Hall, wherein the atmosphere had begun to take on an air of subtle indignation, and Gildas had the grace to blush, though he seemed more irritated than embarrassed. “Yes, well,” he said hastily, “be that as it may, let us not stand upon ceremony—,”

“Oh, but we do so love ceremony here,” Angharad interrupted, suddenly and unexpectedly enjoying herself. It had been some time since she had had an outlet for her frustration, and she took it out on him now with acidic precision. “We are women, you know. But very well. What is it that you are so anxious to nail down?”

He straightened up, and she could see him attempting to gain the upper hand. “Of primary consideration and concern,” he said, turning subtly toward Regat, “the question of dowry, the pecuniary contribution, the...ah...the treasure the Princess brings as her marriage portion.”

There it was. She wanted to burst out laughing. Gods, what an odious little man. If he were the best she could do then at least he’d be no trouble; give him a golden bed to sleep upon and enough jewels to surround himself with and she’d never even have to look at him. Perhaps she could even get him drunk enough to believe the marriage had been consummated — if he were even capable of it — and then banish him to his own quarters forever.He could be useful...put in charge of treasury recovery whenever they lost a ship, or allowed to head up the pearl trade with exotic imports; not a speck would be overlooked, for certain.

“You may address me instead of my mother,” she informed him, without bothering to hide her amusement, “and you seem to be somewhat confused as to the nature of this arrangement, Master Gildas, so allow me to enlighten you. Our treasures will remain our own, and you, if selected as consort, will enjoy their material benefits as much as is good for you. We do not deal in such tiresome and offensive concepts as ‘dowry’ on Llyr, though of course you would be welcome to add your own wealth to our resources, and call it whatever pleases you, or not. But this is all getting rather ahead of ourselves,” she added, as he opened his mouth in astonishment to protest, “as I have yet seen nothing of your skills. I am, as you know, obliged to marry an enchanter, and therefore I should like to see some enchantments.”

He stepped backward, and drew himself up with what he no doubt thought was dignity. “My dear young girl,” he sputtered, “surely in all this time, rumor must have reached you. My skills are without question and I have impeccable recommendations—,”

“And a very high opinion of yourself,” Angharad confirmed, “well-earned, no doubt. But I’m sure you understand, we must have rules or there is no order; anarchy takes over and society falls apart. We cannot have anyone’s qualifications in question. Do favor us with a demonstration.”

There was now soft but open laughter in several portions of the room, and Gildas looked around sharply, then snapped his fingers. His attendants came forward, adorning him in a long glittering cloak and a ridiculous pointed hat covered in symbols. He took up a golden staff, and waved everyone back. “Observe, your Majesty. Your Highnesses.”

He began to move in what looked like a rather clumsy and halting dance, making circles on the floor one way and then another, gesticulating with his arms and chanting out strange words. Burdened by his heavy, rich robes, he was sweating in moments, his bald head flushed and shining. Angharad thought with some alarm that he might faint, but he kept on valiantly, his jewels flashing in the light, a spectacle fascinating for its glittering emptiness.

For long moments nothing at all seemed to be happening, but finally she felt a faint sense of something that her honed senses recognized as magic, though of a type and strain unfamiliar to her, and fairly weak. A small gray cloud appeared in front of the dais, condensing from the air, and Gildas redoubled his efforts, his arms working feverishly. The cloud grew, and condensed, and darkened; suddenly it expanded and enveloped her and her surroundings, swallowed the entire room, blocking out the light from the windows, the candles, the torches, in a suffocating blackness. Astonished gasps and impressed cries rose up from the assembly.

Angharad waited, unimpressed; she felt nothing dangerous within this darkness, but neither did it seem to have any greater purpose. Behind her Eilwen whispered, “amateur” and she almost giggled, composing her face suddenly as the blackness fragmented like torn cloth. Light broke in and then the Hall shone forth as it should, with Gildas panting before the dais but looking up at them in triumph.

Angharad glanced sideways at Regat, who gave the man a small nod for effort and then looked away wearily.

“Well,” Angharad said bluntly, turning her attention back to Gildas, “is that all?”

“All! I beg your pardon,” he gasped, “that is one of my finest effects! My dear princess...”

“My dear enchanter,” she interrupted, “I’m sure it _was_ your best work. You clearly went to a great deal of effort. I hope you haven’t done yourself harm. But I’m afraid I don’t see the point of it. Turning day into night? Rather redundant, really, when all anybody has to do is be patient a little while and night will come along very nicely by itself.” Gildas looked blank, and his mouth opened and shut several times, like a gasping fish. Angharad went on relentlessly. “And forgive me for being critical, but you should work on your darkness. The velvet quality of the real thing is superior. Not to mention night gives us a whole sky full of stars for good measure, plus the moon, which is, as you no doubt know, rather important to us here.” 

Gildas took a few desperate steps toward the dais, bowing obsequiously and stammering, “Allow me to produce something a little more spectacular. I suggest a...a snowstorm! My blizzards never fail to please, and have always been received with approbation.”

Angharad shrugged. “There again, Master Gildas, why bother? When the proper season comes around, we’ll have snow enough. And every flake different, too. Can you do as much?”

He stammered, “Well, I...no, that would be...but, come, there must be something that will please you. Perhaps...a culinary manifestation, a full-course feast? Roast goose? Wine? Sweetmeats?”

This at least had a practical application, but she was weary of the game now. “We’re quite satisfied with our own cook, and she’d be highly insulted to find herself made expendable. Thank you, no. I think I have seen enough. You may wait there.” She motioned to a waiting chair at the foot of the dais, to Regat’s left.

There was a murmur and shift in the room as Gildas, waving his entourage to the side and muttering to himself, slunk to the chair and sat, his wounded pride thick as a cloud around him. “It is against my principles to criticize my colleagues,” he remarked sullenly, to Regat, “But I can assure Your Majesty; no enchantments can rival mine.”

“Thank you,” Angharad shot in his direction, “we shall decide for ourselves.”

Regat cast her an approving glance, and motioned for the next enchanter to come forward. There was another shirring of stringed instruments, a herald cried out the name of Lord Grimgower, and the crowd parted with rather more haste than it had for the previous entourage, as he and his handful of attendants made their way forward.

It was clear, as he approached, that unlike his predecessor,that Grimgower had no need of extremes of appearance to compensate for a lack of power — though it meant his appearance was extreme by choice alone, and Angharad wasn’t sure that was better. Garbed in unornamented black, he was large-framed but thin, and his face was square and sharp-boned, eyes sunk into his skull, like those of something that had been dead for days. His brows and square, short beard were also black, his mouth a thin and forbidding line across his face. Magic was so thick around him his outlines were vague, and even when he stood at the very foot of the dais, his image was hazy, as though seen through smoke. But his deep-set eyes were sharply visible; a strange and unearthly golden color that almost glowed in the dark sockets. His gaze raked the length of her body and then met her eyes boldly, flaming and ravenous, and Angharad knew, instantly, that he was angry at not having been allowed to do so before.

A frisson of fear and revulsion shot up her spine, followed swiftly by hot fury. How _dare_ he look at her with such unconcealed lust, here, in her very stronghold - how dare he even set _foot_ upon this island, let alone think himself worthy of her? Almost she ordered him away without further pretense; her hands clenched upon the arms of the throne, her breath inhaled in a swift, impulsive preparation to speak the words...

She halted her thoughts abruptly, thinking. Imagine being offered to this creature if you were anyone else —without magic to protect you, without even the freedoms afforded the women of Llyr. Suppose.... suppose he did stay here, where he could be watched carefully, kept under control. It could save some poor woman of Prydain from being preyed upon by him. Probably, she thought, looking at him in disgust, many of them.

It would be a dangerous game, though. He had, clearly, not come with any intention of being submissive. She spoke no words of welcome, and he did not wait for them. “Princess,” he announced, “I come to claim your hand, and declare myself willing to accept you as my wife.”

A murmur of disbelief and outrage arose from the surrounding listeners, and Angharad raised a hand, fighting to maintain her outward calm. Beneath it, she studied him, with enraged intensity, but only said diffidently, “Oh, well, at least that’s half the question settled.”

Grimgower threw his head back, his arms folded, eyes glittering like a snake’s. “Let us understand one another. The House of Llyr is well known for the powers of its enchantresses....and the willfulness of its daughters.” His eyes appraised her again, dominating and possessive, as though she were a horse he would like to break. “Your line has ruled this island well enough — a small and paltry kingdom. Long has it lacked the balance that would make it stronger. I come not merely to apply to a position as consort, but to arrange an alliance of true power. For in my household, I am the only Master, and thus it will remain.”

Regat made a movement at this, as though she were about to speak, and Angharad felt the air around them crackle, hot and dangerous. She laid a hand on her mother’s arm, though her own heart was racing and her breath came short at the size of the offense being committed. He may as well have laid claim to the throne outright. Was he stark raving mad?

The noise in the room had risen to a furor of angry responses, and behind her she felt Eilwen and Arianrhod both seething.Angharad sat forward in her throne, glaring at him, her tone dripping with irony. “That sounds _delightful._ Yet have a care, Lord Grimgower,” she added, in a voice that she barely kept from trembling with anger, “that you do not presume upon your welcome here.”

His dark brows knit together in a mocking challenge. “Oh, no, Princess, I but offer you that which you need, and thus my welcome should be assured. It is you who should think more of your duty and less of your pleasure.” His golden eyes blazed in triumph and she shivered. “Mistake me not. I know that the powers of Llyr are considerable, but they are incomplete. You marry enchanters in order to supplement those powers, to shore up your weaknesses, to protect your island. Is it not so?”

She made no answer, and he lowered his voice, so that his next words were caught only by those closest to the dais. “And I know by my own arts that you are in particular need of such an alliance at this time.”

Thunderstruck, they all stared, for a moment unable to respond, and he pressed his advantage, sweeping his arms out in a possessive gesture. “Too long has this land languished, neglecting its full potential under the rule of only women. The sons born of our marriage will have powers beyond all others and will rule supreme throughout the land. The joining of our two houses—”

“Stop!’ Angharad shouted, leaping to her feet. A sudden wave of nausea swept her and she swayed, and fought it down, while the audience roared in her ears. Eilwen, behind her, laid a firm hand on her shoulder, whispered something, and the wave passed. She raised her hands to quiet the crowd, and looked down at him with withering scorn. “You overstep, Master Grimgower, if you intended to bring us counsel on our reign, which was never requested, instead of the courtship that was. Houses do not marry, and there will be no joining of such, only the joining of my hand with yours or not, upon the terms we have established and no other. If that suits you, we may proceed.”

His golden gaze quailed, just a little, but magic was thick and potent in the air and she dared not push him farther. Her mind raced, tumbling over itself; she had no time to consider all the implications, only knew that he was dangerous, and knew too much, and the sooner he was gone the better. Best to bring this business to a quick end. “Now,” she said, seating herself once more, “either you do not know our history as well as you claim, or you are, perhaps, overly confident in your own virility.” Another titter ran through the crowd and he flashed an expression of utter fury at her, quickly masked under controlled disdain. “If you can predict sons instead of daughters,” she went on, “you are prophet indeed, with a will to rival the goddess herself. But since such cannot be proven under present circumstances, I suggest you demonstrate your skill some other way.”

With a contemptuous sneer, Grimgower stepped back and flung his arms in the air, crying out in a strange and unpleasant language. There were screams from the crowd as the space around him was suddenly filled with a bevy of strange creatures, a nightmarish collection of monstrous apparitions. Teeth slavered; claws bared and clutched; strange appendages moved in horrible suggestive tremors. A few mouths spat flame, and a dozen pairs of soulless and baleful eyes fastened themselves upon the thrones.

Regat drew herself back in distaste and Angharad felt a crawling sensation, as though spiders made their way up her bare legs. But she masked her discomfort behind nonchalance. “Poor things,” she said lightly, “they looked starved for their dinners. You ought to take better care of them. They need a good washing and brushing; I daresay they’re all flea-ridden.”

Grimgower’s face flushed dark with anger at being so mocked. “These are no common enchantments,” he growled, “but creatures shaped of my own dreams. I alone can summon them, and you shall not see their like in all the realm.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” she acknowledged. “They do look like the sort of things you would dream up. But I don’t think we have much need for them here.”

“What do you know of need?” the enchanter countered. “These do my bidding. None dare attack where they stand guard. You see this one?” He motioned toward one, a serpent-like creature with pale, pupil-less eyes. It slithered to his side, and twisted a forked tongue toward the thrones. “It can move nearly undetected, even into a stronghold, sowing fear, gathering knowledge, seeking out weakness. Armed with its information, you can protect and defend against assault, bring the guilty to justice, face the enemy knowing the battle is already won. Would you call this useless?”

Angharad frowned as the crowd around him muttered, the implications of his claim sinking into her with dread. But she waved it off with feigned casualness. “Useful it may be, in its way,” she said, “but we have other methods, more agreeable, I think, for our purposes. As for the rest, I prefer our creatures, though of course they’re quite ordinary things - rabbits and deer and badgers and such. But they’re far more handsome than these, and no doubt have better tempers.”

He glowered at her, and the darkness of his anger was heavy in the air; she felt the edge of it like a knife blade, ready to plunge, an open challenge. Next to her, Regat tensed, and the fire in the great hearth suddenly roared. _Gods_ , no, they could not afford a scene, a magical clash right here, before all the people, endangering everyone...

 _Rhiannon_ , she pleaded silently, frantically, in desperation.

And suddenly the warm and fluid stillness at the back of her mind was a rising, swelling flood; itrushed out, in a wave of quelling and subduing peace, and beat back the invisible flames that had filled the air, quenching them, settling over the gathering. Across the Hall, the chattering voices hushed themselves, and as one the gathered throng breathed deep and looked at one another in calm and pleasant contentment. The hearth fire dimmed to a mere flicker, and upon the windowpanes, droplets of water condensed, beading out of the clear air and lining the glass like crystal.

Angharad sat back, dazed and a little shaken. Magic had never overwhelmed her so suddenly and completely before; she looked over the quiet throne room at the admiring gazes of her gathered subjects and knew that not one of them was even aware that anything at all had happened. She stole a glance at her mother, at her aunt. Regat, looking relieved, gave her a slow nod. Arianrhod’s eyes were shut, her hand pressed over the full moon at her breast, and her lips moved silently, but her face glowed, radiant.

Grimgower was still standing before the dais. His creatures had disappeared, and he looked confused, as though he also were not quite sure what had happened, or how he had lost a battle that had never begun. He straightened up and met her eyes once more, resentment evident in his golden gaze, and she knew he would not be so easily disposed of, but at present he posed no further threat. She waved him curtly toward another seat next to Gildas, and he swept over and sat, with a disgusted glance at his rival.

And now she had come down to it. Angharad scanned the gathered assembly in despair, feeling that she were about to pronounce her own death sentence. She looked down at Gildas, whose bald head had nearly disappeared into the jeweled cowl of his cloak as he slumped. Intolerable. And he had no power that could possibly help them. Yet he at least posed no obvious danger, while Grimgower…Grimgower was an open threat. He knew things he should not, whatever his means, and his intentions were unacceptable, his manner repugnant. She shuddered at the thought of binding herself to such a man — even if it were to spare weaker women from him. Doing away with him entirely would solve that with less pain, and if he gave her an excuse…

She leaned toward Regat and whispered low, “Mother, by the gods, it’s no choice at all. How can I possibly pick either of them? How _can_ it be that there are no others? There has to be another way.”

Regat shook her head, with a glance at the two men that did little to conceal her lack of enthusiasm. “I do not understand it,” she admitted, “but you know quite well that there have been no—,”

There was a sudden commotion near the entryway, and a ripple of movement through the crowd. Caradoc elbowed his way through and approached the dais, bowing. Regat motioned him forward. His face was calm with practiced control, but his eyes gleamed. “Your Majesty,” he murmured, “there is another.”

Angharad and Regat both gaped at him in most unregal astonishment. Regat recovered first. “Who is he? From where?”

“He would give no name,” the Chief Steward whispered urgently, “but he performed some small feats at the gate, and begged to be allowed to apply for the Princess’s favor. And if I may, Majesty, from what I saw…” he glanced at Angharad, a rarely-displayed excitement evident in his mien, “I recommend he be admitted.”

Regat looked quizzically at him, and then turned to Angharad. “It is your decision, daughter.”

Angharad sat back, with a strange and rather unpleasant thrill. She wanted nothing more than for it all to be over, to choose her doom and be done with it, end this charade and then decide how to live with the consequences. And now, some fly-by-night enchanter who could not even be bothered to show up until it was almost too late wanted to prolong the matter? She looked at Caradoc’s gleaming eyes with a growing sense of disquiet. What had he seen? Perhaps the new one was young and handsome…or at least, a comparatively decent man…she gulped, and realized, suddenly, that she was afraid.

Because, somehow, it would almost be worse, to wed someone she could…tolerate.

If she could loathe her husband with sincerity, she could remain faithful to Geraint in her heart at least. But to treat a good man so, cold and distant for the innocent crime of not being someone else…it would be cruelty. If she could not hate him she would hate herself, and in the end she would be as broken and love-starved as her mother.

She almost refused, took a breath to do it, but another wave of nausea swept her, and she turned swiftly away as if to think, covering her mouth with one hand. Eilwen, alert, pushed a cup at her, and she sipped quietly, sought the peace of that inner dark space that had saved her once already, breathed into it until the wave passed. _What do I do?_

She wanted to weep again, but the eyes of the assembly were upon her. These people who looked to her; they were why she was still here to begin with, and it was for them that she made this choice at all. What good had it been, staying for duty, if she failed them now? Suppose this third enchanter really could serve, had powers that might actually be of use, to protect the island, to help them?

“Angharad?” Regat intoned quietly.

Angharad screwed her eyes shut, her heart bursting. _Geraint. Forgive me for this._

“I’ve put up with this pair,” she sighed, opening her eyes, carefully feigning indifference, “so I suppose a third can hardly be more tiresome. Show him in.”

Caradoc turned and made a signal toward the door. The musicians, caught off guard, made no fanfare. Once again the crowd parted, slowly and with little ceremony, for this man came alone, without attendants. As he came closer Angharad saw that he was cloaked and hooded, his face concealed.

She caught her breath, as a spark like slow lightning trickled over her scalp, down her arms, into her fingertips. This was familiar. In the scry, ages ago, it seemed —this man had appeared, a cloaked figure standing in a crowded Great Hall, a magic shape between his fingertips. She closed her eyes and tried to recall it, the image —the triple spiral, the thing that haunted all their visions, the symbol of the _Dagrau Rhiannon._..

Her heart raced, and then a gasp of recognition from her sister rose above the murmurs of the crowd, and she opened her eyes — to see Geraint, standing at the foot of the dais, his hood thrown back and his blue eyes shining at her like every star that ever reflected in the surface of the open sea.


	34. Chapter 34

_In the beginning was the sea—_

_we heard the surf in our breathing,_

_certain that we carried_

_seawater in our veins._

~Ilya Kaminsky

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Four

Geraint was afraid, for a moment, that he had made a mistake.

Angharad flushed crimson and then went deathly white; she gripped the arms of her throne so hard that her knuckles made blue shadows against her pale skin. She made one sharp sound, a cry of surprise, quickly cut short and strangled away, and then shut her mouth tightly, in a trembling line, a sluice gate against a bursting flood. Her eyes blazed at him, emerald fire, drowning in unshed tears. She looked as though she might faint, a thing it had never even occurred to him she might be capable of. For several eternal seconds, within the whispering, expectant silence of the Hall, he captured her gaze, willing her, with all his might, to be strong enough to bear the shock. If eyes were arms, he could not have held her any more tightly.

He knew it was a terrible way to spring his return upon her. He, at least, had been able to prepare himself, an advantage that she had not.

He had watched, from his place in the back of the Hall, flanked by the two guards hurriedly assigned to him after his impassioned encounter with the skeptical Chief Steward; he had gazed about, sizing up the space and the crowd, mentally going over his plan and trying not to feel overwhelmed by the grandeur of his surroundings.

He’d been in castles before, after all; some grander, some not. Caer Color was undeniably impressive; it was no Caer Dathyl as far as its size or intimidating defenses, but there was something more beautiful about it, something foreign and more delicate in its ornamentation. Distractedly, he took in the arched masonry, the tapestries, the colorfully-tiled floor, the heavy and ornately-carved furnishings, and wondered, with a pang, what he had ever been thinking. This was Angharad’s home. How could he have ever dreamed, even in his wildest, most impulsive moments, that she could leave all this for him?

And then the royal family had entered, and he had seen nothing else but her.

Even from his distance of the end of the Hall, even among the color and splendor of her attendant family and its legendary beauty, she shone like a sun among stars, gowned in the colors of a sunset sky, turquoise to coral to crimson, in a fabric that shimmered like light on water. Gems flashed at her girdle and breast, adorned her bare arms, crowned her proud head. Her hair was dressed in elaborate coils, twisted and pinned to tumble its bright waves down her back. She moved with formal grace, and something caught and clawed at his throat as an unbidden image of her rose to his mind: half-dressed, laughing, hair streaming wild, running and splashing through surf in coltish and wild abandon. She was a different creature altogether now, almost alien to him. All around him, murmurs of admiration and devotion rose from the assembly, and he held his breath to prevent the cry that wanted to burst from his lips - whether it were at joy in the sight of her, or despair at the distance now between them, he did not know.

He had watched, in impotent fury, the presentations of Gildas and Grimgower, and in amazement and mounting glee as Angharad had matched them both. She was all goddess now; he recognized her: glorious and ruthless, utterly untouchable; was she always thus, here in this room, on that throne? The first man was pitiable before her. The second was dangerous - even Geraint could see that, with no need of magical enhancements, and he wanted to rush forward and challenge them both, like a fool, as though his desire to sink his fist into each of their faces would be any match for whatever spells they might cast. It would do no good, he reminded himself angrily, to pretend to himself that he was here to compete against them. The truth would be clear to everyone soon enough, and he could only hope to pass off his information before his deception was uncovered.

His heart had hammered as the Chief Steward approached the dais and whispered to the queen, at whom, in his distraction, Geraint had neglected to look. Now he examined her, with nervous curiosity, this woman of whom Angharad had spoken with such ambivalence, who ruled her own daughter with less lenience, it had sometimes seemed, than she ruled her island.

Regat was, even seated, clearly a tall woman, fuller-figured and larger-framed than Angharad. She was robed in vivid crimson, her dark head crowned in gold, and even from this distance the weight of her physical presence was evident. She moved with slow and deliberate poise as though every gesture was planned in advance; the look of surprise she turned upon the Steward was almost jolting in its incongruity with her controlled features. Geraint saw her scan the crowd as if to pick him out, and found himself shrinking away, glad of his hooded cloak.

Further than that, he had no time to consider; Angharad had said something, the queen nodded, and the Steward was waving to him. He had gulped, patted the various pockets and pouches distributed about his person for assurance, muttered a quick prayer to whatever gods might be listening, and stepped forward.

And now he stood before them all, a fool about to reveal himself, but the bearer of that which he could not have gotten to Angharad in any other way. He saw, in the corner of his eye, that Regat had stiffened and leaned forward, and he felt the hot intensity of her gaze, a familiar impression, one he knew well from a different quarter, and elected not to meet lest he lose all his nerve. He glanced up, swiftly, took in the astonished expressions of Eilwen and Arianrhod, who both looked as if they were not sure whether to be ecstatic or dismayed. The High Priestess had her hand pressed over her heart as though she might be keeping it from bursting through her ribs, and her lips moved soundlessly. Eilwen flashed him a shadow of her cheeky grin, rather desperately, and he returned his attention to Angharad.

She seemed to rally, darting a sidelong look at the queen, so brief it was almost nothing, and drew herself up, the color returning to her face. She regarded him with austerity, tossed her head and spoke. “Well, sir. I trust you have a reason for your tardiness. Nearly missing this presentation is no way to make a first impression.”

Geraint let his breath out slowly, holding her eyes. “Indeed, milady, I have every reason, for my journey has been long, and fraught with peril. But the moment I heard of your request, I vowed to come and offer my suit to you, and so, as you see, I let nothing keep me from it.”

Her gaze filled with understanding, and her voice nearly bubbled with suppressed joy. “An admirable perseverance, then. But from where have you traveled, that the journey should be so arduous?”

“From everywhere,” he answered, warming to the game, “from the mountains and forests of your fair eastern neighbor, from the black cliffs and coastlines of your island. I have walked the secret hollows and perilous paths of the Fair Ones themselves, charming them with my enchantments and living to tell the wondrous tale. But at first,” he added, as though it were an afterthought, “I come from Gellau, at the foot of the mountains of Idris. I am Geraint son of Durhaim, and I have journeyed here to win the hand of the Princess of Llyr.”

A murmur of approval rose from the surrounding crowd, and he sensed, with the perception of long experience, the gathering in of the attention of his onlookers. It prickled at his scalp, and nudged at the back of his neck.

Angharad tapped her fingertips on her throne and waited for the murmurs to die away. She was smiling faintly, face flushed, eyes aglow. “Well, then, Master Geraint. By what enchantments do you mean to court us?”

He returned the smile deftly. “Why, Princess, by none at all. Does a man court a woman with sorcery?” For the first time he glanced at the two men who sat at the foot of the dais, both of them staring at him in open-mouthed consternation. He shrugged at them and returned his attention to the princess. “It seems to me he must court her with love.”

“Boldly spoken,” she replied, flush deepening, “but how shall you do so?”

“As a man to a woman,” he answered quietly, knowing it was futile, but somehow, against all reason, hoping anyway, “and may you answer me freely, as a woman to a man.”

Angharad made a sound like a laugh and a sob mixed together, and seemed on the verge of crying out something more. The queen made a sudden movement and Geraint realized she was staring at him with no less intensity than her daughter, though her expression was more amazement than joy. She also looked about to speak, but before anyone could, an indignant shout arose from his right, and Gildas stumbled forward, inserting himself between Geraint and the thrones. “Your Majesty,” he sputtered, “I must protest.”

“And I,” Grimgower broke in, following him, stepping directly in front of Geraint, breaking off his view. “All enchanters who come to court the princess are obliged to prove their skills. So states your law, and so I and _this_ ,” he indicated Gildas with a sneer, “were required to do. Fine words may woo a woman’s heart, but they will not protect your land if there is no power behind them; let him prove his prowess, as we did.”

Geraint stepped to the side, out of his shadow, and saw that Angharad had paled again, her smile fading. He raised his hands, as though to calm unruly children. “Gently, my colleagues. I would not presume an advantage, and my claim was not made of empty words. Pray put your minds at ease, sit down and watch, and you shall know my skills. All of you,” he added, turning once more to the throne, nodding assurance at Angharad with more confidence than he felt, “shall know my skills. Listen, children of Llyr!”

Heart pounding, mouth dry, he turned to the assembly, opening his arms wide, as though to encompass them all in an embrace. Silence fell, thick and expectant, and he took a long breath, falling into the control and pattern he knew, tuning his voice to its most compelling, so that he had no need to shout. 

“Listen, and I shall tell you a story. The story of Llyr, of the love that spanned the sea, that built an island, that birthed a nation, that still beats in the heart of its people.”

The people whispered and jostled one another to see him. Torches on the walls flickered as one, and the very boundaries of the room seemed to loom in toward him. The world held its breath, and Geraint reached into his cloak, and clutched the crescent pendant that rested over his breast. _Rhiannon_ , he thought, _if you are listening.._.

_...now._

_Once, in a land far away, a land across the sea, surrounded by sea, surrendered to sea, a country touched by magic and moonlight, a king ruled alone._

_Llyr was his name, and he ruled alone, for nowhere could he find a woman whom his heart could call home, to set beside him as his queen. Though his people were happy and the land was prosperous, their hearts were troubled at the the loneliness of their king, and through all the kingdom and neighboring lands, his advisors searched for a bride for him. But though there were many maidens of surpassing beauty, and many of wit, such that he enjoyed their company and conversation, none touched his heart. He tried to settle upon first one and then another, but he had no peace in the choice, and finally despaired of his own heart, wondering if it were even possible to satisfy its longing._

_At last, Llyr sought an answer in vision, after making such sacrifice as would oblige the fates to respond. And in the night, when the moon was as round and ripe as the fruit at harvest, he dreamed a dream more vivid and real than any he had ever known._

_In his dream, Llyr saw a rich green land, full of golden sunlight, where summer reigned warm and joyous all the year long, a land where dwelt the children of gods. Beautiful they were, untouched by age or death, golden-headed and clear-eyed, and in his dream he walked among them. Yet though he stood out for his raven hair and dark eyes, as different from them as night from day, no one paid him any heed, as though they could not see him, and neither did any hear his greetings, or answer his questions._

_He walked in this strange land for what seemed many hours, and found it ever fairer, its verdant hills thick with rainbows of flowers, its forests teeming with game of all kinds, its fields filled with sleek livestock, its villages with laughing children. Tempted to tarry, he journeyed on and knew not why, until on a high hill in the distance he beheld a castle with towers that gleamed as though fashioned of pure gold._

_Drawn by the sight of this wonder, he followed the yearning in his own heart, until he came to the gates. They stood open, for the people of this land feared no invader, and he strode in unhindered. Many chambers he passed through, filled with wealth and riches and wonders beyond imagining, such that would make this tale go on for eternity to describe them, but never did he turn aside to right or left, nor lay his hand upon any treasure. For as the robin flies to the south every year, or as the iron is drawn to the lodestone, so he was drawn upward and inward, to the heart of the fortress, without knowing why._

_He found there a tower, taller than all the rest, and his feet flew as though they bore wings, up the stair in its long spiral, that led him to a chamber at its height. He entered there, and beheld a woman, seated at the window, spinning golden thread._

_Unlike all the others in the dream, she looked upon him, and rose from her wheel to greet him as though she felt no surprise at his coming, as though she had expected him._

_She was fair as the morning, almost too brilliant to look upon, with the red-gold kiss of fire in her hair, and a light in her eyes as warm as sunlight. As they conversed there, together, Llyr found his delight, for she was as full of life and laughter as she was of wit and wisdom, and before an hour had passed he knew that she and no other would hold his heart forever._

_But as the king knelt before her to beg her to wed, she faded from his sight, and he awoke in his bed alone, and wept at the loss of that he had barely known._

_From that day forward Llyr, though a young man, hale and strong, was as an empty shell. His advisors despaired, and the kingdom mourned, for despite many inquiries, no one knew where the fair country and the golden castle were to be found, or whether such a place even existed in any place but the king’s dream. In their grief the people abandoned their work and their play; their plows stood idle and fields fallow, and in their temples no incense burned, and finally Rhiannon came down from her path through the heavens, to learn what could be amiss with her people._

_“My son,” she asked the king, for so he was, “what is this grief I see upon you? This heart-emptiness that spreads among the people like a sickness?”_

_He told her of his dream, of the woman who held his heart, and her own heart sank, for she knew at once who it was, and the heartbreak her son had arranged for himself. “Alas, my Llyr,” she mourned, “that you would fall in love with the fair daughter of the sun. For so she is; the golden castle is that which Belin, my brother, built for his children, the sons and daughters of Don his consort, in the fair Summer Country where they dwell. She is his eldest, Penarddun, the fairest of all and apple of his eye, and never will he consent to allow her to leave his country to wed you and live so far away, not though you could offer her all your kingdom.”_

_“Mother,” the king answered, “so you say. Yet I beseech you to ask Lord Belin for his daughter’s hand. Surely, your own brother will not refuse, for love of you.”_

_“There is love and there is love,” Rhiannon replied, but her son would not be gainsaid, for his heart was no longer his own, and so at last, Rhiannon brought the suit to her brother. Thus the moon and the sun conversed together, so that the light of both was blotted out, and noontime turned to dusk, and the people trembled in fear._

_Lord Belin, as Rhiannon had predicted, would hear no word of his beloved daughter leaving her family for a strange kingdom. “It is your land,” he told his sister, “and fair enough it is, for you and yours, who love the cool darkness and the depths of the waters all around. But it is no place for a daughter of mine, accustomed to the warmth of an everlasting summer, and I will not have her leave her people to dwell so far away, nor live in the mortal realm where her days will be cut short.”_

_Rhiannon pleaded with him, for the sake of her son’s happiness, until he grew angry and swore an oath. “When your son moves earth and sea aside,” he said, “to bring his kingdom nearer, then will he have my daughter as bride. Until then, let me hear no more, or else, my sister, our affection will suffer for it.”_

_The goddess, in her grief and anger, shed one tear, salt water mingled of moonlight and starlight, as precious as the most rare jewel in all the world. She caught it, kept it safe, and bore it back to her son Llyr, along with the answer she had been given. He would have despaired, but Rhiannon only said, “Wait.”_

_And taking her precious tear, by her power and secret arts she clove it into thirds. Three tears, three gems full of light, each one as the next, whole and perfect, yet separate. They are the tears of the goddess, Dagrau Rhiannon — once one, now sundered, always yearning to be one again._

_One gem, Rhiannon kept for herself. The second she bound in a crown of silver, and placing it on the brow of Llyr her son, she bade him build a ship that could cross the vastness of the sea. The third she placed in his hand, to keep safe. “For what purpose, this last?” he asked her._

_And again, Rhiannon said, “Wait.”_

_Llyr set his people to the building of the great ship. As they of his land knew the sea as they knew their own names, it was done, such a vessel as had never been seen, as beautiful as a great pearl upon the waters, filled with provision to last a long journey, and crewed by the finest seamen in the land. Before the year’s end, it was done, and after blessing his people, the king sailed away._

_Rhiannon sent forth her sacred birds, white doves, swift of wing and tireless, to guide the ship. They flew over waters smooth and swift, for Llyr had been born of sea and moonlight, and the waters obeyed his command, and drew his boat onward even when no wind filled her sails. The king stood in the prow, with his dark eyes always turned north. The gem on his brow shone like a star, and he clasped the third in his hand, and wondered what would come of it._

_And a year and a day passed as though they were nothing, though each day seemed long of itself, and at last the sharp-eyed seamen sighted land - an island, they said; fair and green, with a cove to make safe harbor. There were but few inhabitants on it, a magical race and ancient, who welcomed the king and his ship, for he was courteous and generous, and rewarded them richly for allowing him to land there. And the islanders called him Half-Speech, for he spoke their tongue oddly, and they promised him and his people refuge there for as long as they desired it._

_Then came forth the king, the night of the first full moon, to the edge of the island, looking south toward the land he had sailed from. “Rhiannon, my mother,” he cried, “I have done your bidding, and now what remains?”_

_She answered him in the roar of the tides, in the breath of the wind off the sea. “Take you the jewel upon your brow,” she instructed, “and the jewel in your hand, and place them in the manner I will show you.”_

_And he did thus, in a secret sign, and there he performed such magic as is known only to the ancients. And the two gems, thus arrayed, so called to the third, so yearned to be united again, that the very earth and sea between them moved of themselves. The sea swept itself aside, and the vast space between the homeland of Llyr and the new island was made as nothing, as mist, as a step through a gate, and through that gate came the people of Llyr, those he had left behind to sail away. In wonder and fear and great joy they came, as the king bade them, crossing through the mist in twos and threes, and then in scores and more. For long they came, until the entire kingdom of Llyr had crossed over, bringing their possessions, their flocks, their young and their old. And then the king took up the gems, and the gate was shut._

_Rhiannon called to her brother Belin to go and see what had been wrought. “Behold,” she told him, “my son has moved earth and sea aside, and nearer is his kingdom. He has fulfilled your terms, and you must keep your vow.”_

_Then wroth was Belin, and the sun scorched the land, and there was drought in many places, but having spoken the words of his vow, he could not call them back to himself.The House of Don mourned, and the Sons of Don grumbled against Llyr and Rhiannon, and would have fought for their sister until not one was left standing. But Penarddun herself, when she heard that which had been promised, went to her father._

_“Be not loath, my father,” she begged him, “to grant me to wed. For two years past, I beheld a vision of a dark-eyed king, who came to my chamber, enchanted, like a man in a dream. He was handsome, courteous, kind, and clever, and never has an afternoon passed so delightfully as the one I spent in his company. I believed we were of one mind and heart, but just as he seemed about to declare so, he vanished away like mist. I despaired of seeing him again, and I wept alone, and could not be comforted, nor could I explain to anyone the reason for my grief, for the tale was as madness, a thing unheard of. Yet now I know, without doubt, it was this Llyr, and my heart belongs to him already.”_

_“Alas, my bright one, fairest daughter,” Belin replied, “for this love is your doom. Although Llyr is the son of my sister, and the blood of the gods runs in his veins, his kingdom is a mortal one. If you leave this country of mine, you will be as he. Age will steal away your beauty, and death will take you at last, and you will break the hearts of your family.”_

_“My father,” Penarddun answered him, “if you forbid me to join him for the sake of your grief, know that you will lose me nonetheless. For my heart will perish within me, and I will be nought but a fair and empty vessel, without even the blessing of death to be released from my grief.”_

_Her father saw that he had no choice, and granted his permission. Lord Belin and Lady Don formed from their powers a great treasure: the golden Pelydryn, the little sun, a wedding gift for their daughter — to shine for her in the darkness, and brighten her spirit in the midst of so much that would be strange and alien to her._

_So the Daughter of the Sun wed the Son of the Moon, and the children of darkness and light were joined together. Joy and sadness mingled as one, for Penarddun, after all, wept at leaving her home and her family. But happily the king and queen reigned, and bore children, and their love blessed the land, for it bloomed with color and health and life, and the people prospered and multiplied in abundance. And their neighbors called them the Sea People, for they seemed to have risen directly out of the waters._

_Yet the island’s first inhabitants grumbled, as time went on. “This land was ours,” they said, “and now we are pressed back and back, with less and less to call our own. Would that we had refused to harbor this king when he first arrived on these shores, and that we had never promised him refuge.”_

_Word reached Llyr of their grievance, and he was troubled, for though they were few, they were of a powerful race, and he did not wish to cross them. Nor did he, as some kings, always covet more land and power, for the sea supplied all the abundance his people required, and he remained always mindful that he had moved his kingdom to a land that was not their own. So he held council with the ancient race who had welcomed him, and conferred together with their king. Together they agreed that a portion of the island should be set aside, never to be inhabited by the people of Llyr, and there the ancient ones could live unmolested, in any way that pleased them. To show his goodwill, seeing that these folk loved jewels of every kind, Llyr gave to their king the third gem, one of the precious Dagrau Rhiannon, as a token of his gratitude for the welcome and refuge given to his people._

_The King of these ancients knew at once the great value of the jewel, and swore that it would be protected, and honored the House of Llyr from that day forward._

_Years passed, and the two sons and two daughters of Llyr and Penarddun grew fair and strong. And though his years were well beyond the span of mortal men, at last the king passed on to the next world, and queen and his people mourned him, and even the ancient folk came to pay him honor. Their king, remembering their friendship, allowed Llyr’s barrow to be placed within the space set apart for them, that it would be safe from any thieves. For King Llyr was buried with the gem of Rhiannon still set into his crown, as the queen knew that its power, if set in the highest place, would help to protect the island from invaders._

_Yet tragedy befell it from within. Before the king was cold in his tomb, the sons of Llyr began to quarrel over who would rule after him. Their quarrels turned to fights, and the fights to battles, and the battles to a war, and the land was torn asunder in their violence, and the women and children wept, as did Rhiannon herself, to see her people turn brother against brother, until the slain were piled together, and the waters of the fair island ran red with their blood._

_And finally the sons of Llyr, in their lust for power, crossed into the land not meant for them, and despoiled their father’s tomb in search of the gem, in hope that he who possessed it could use its power in his own favor. In their rage and madness they desecrated the body of Llyr, but they found nothing, for the ancient ones bewitched them, and set false visions before their eyes. The two slew one another, and the war was ended, but the gem was safe._

_Penarddun the queen, when her grief had abated, summoned the king of the ancient ones to thank him for his people’s service, and they made an alliance, that the barrow of the Llyr should be a sacred place, both for her people and his. They surrounded it by great sentinels, and set up a guard so dreadful and powerful that the mortals of Llyr dared not cross the boundary, and indeed, were forbidden so to do. And so would the gem be safeguarded._

_And the rest, you children of Llyr, you know, how the Daughters of Llyr banned the names of his sons from their mouths and their history, and how they have ruled his land, from mother to daughter, now through many long generations. Long has this country prospered in peace, and now you know why. For it was a land born of love, and blessed of Rhiannon, and to this day she watches over it. The spirit of Llyr rests upon it in the tides of the sea, the blood of Llyr runs through the veins of its people, and the body of Llyr sleeps in peace in the sacred place among the stones._

_And what of the Dagrau Rhiannon? The first gem still rests on the breast of the goddess, as all can see, for it shines near the horn of the new moon on dark nights, the fairest star in the heavens._

_As for the others, only the ancient ones know what has become of them._

“And thus,” rang out into the stillness, “is my story ended, and my magic finished.”

Silence. Geraint waited, his arms lowered, his breath gone, heart pounding.

And then, like a wave, a roar rose up from the throats of the assembly, swept through the Hall and crested and peaked and crashed even to the crowd assembled in the courtyard, who had passed along every word as it had been spoken, and described what was witnessed within. Feet stamped and hands clapped in a raucous crescendo of approval, and cries of his own name echoed off the walls in a chorus.

He turned to the dais. The Daughters of Llyr stood as though frozen, stunned, in various attitudes mixed of wonder, revelation, fear, and hope. He feared to look too closely at the queen. He saw only Angharad’s face, radiant as a diamond, as she smiled upon him through freely streaming tears.

Without thought, on impulse, he held out his arms to her, and she rose from her throne to run to him, but a commotion from the foot of the dais interrupted. Grimgower again thrust himself between them, his dark face livid, golden eyes flashing. “What trickery is this?”the enchanter demanded, facing the queen. “He used no sorcery known to me or to any magician. These were mere illusions, no magic at all — he is an imposter, a false enchanter. Your Majesty should cast him out!’

“Cast him out!” Gildas was puffing up behind, his jowls quivering. “Nay, he should be imprisoned for such deception! He has tried to dupe us. I heard no spells, no proper charms or incantations. An upstart and pretender with no power dares vie for the hand of the princess? This is a hoax, my ladies! He is a mere juggler!”

Geraint stepped away from them as the crowd gasped, and the cries of approval and joy turned to angry and outraged shouts for the two bested suitors to hold their peace. Their support brought him little comfort, though it was something; he knew well enough that none of his illusions could have fooled anyone of actual magical ability. But, for a moment, during his performance...it had almost seemed _real._

Whether it were the magic of the story itself, or the gravity of the moment, the touch of Angharad’s eyes upon him, or the touch of the Fair Folk lingering upon him, he had felt it. The white doves of Rhiannon, flying across the sea...the flowers that bloomed upon the fertile island, blessed with love and life...the gem glittering among the stars...his hands had never moved so fluidly, so effortlessly, and though he had practiced and planned most of the previous night, and knew exactly how each illusion was accomplished, even he had...for those few magical moments... _believed_. And he knew that his audience, their hearts captured by their own story, saw what he wanted them to see, and believed, also.

But now it was ended.

Angharad had begun to protest, but Regat held up a hand, and the crowd also fell into silence. The queen turned her severe gaze upon him and he met her eyes, finally, and found that he held no terror of her, after all, for behind the severity lay not the anger he anticipated, but regret, and a great gulf of sadness.

“You have heard these accusations, Geraint of Gellau,” she said quietly. “Are they true?”

He saw Angharad make a halting, desperate motion from the corner of his eye, but he did not break his gaze from the queen’s. “Yes,” he answered. There was a collective sigh of dismay and disbelief in the Hall, and he raised his voice above it. “It is altogether true, Your Majesty. Sorcery is not my birthright, and I have no inborn power. What you saw, I fashioned myself. The doves of Rhiannon were bits of white parchment. The flowers, dry grass and tinted leaves. The stars were a handful of bright pebbles.” He drew various of such from his cloak and pockets, displayed them in his open hands. “I only helped you imagine these things to be more than what they are. If this pleased you for a few moments, I could ask nothing better.”

Regat sat silent, as though she weighed her choices heavily. “You have skill, of a kind,” she acknowledged finally, “and we do not deny it. But daring to come here in the guise of an enchanter?”

Angharad made another involuntary motion, and Geraint broke the queen’s gaze to hold the princess in his eyes instead. For just a moment she was the only one there, and his heart swelled with so much truth that it could not help welling up from his lips. “To win Angharad’s hand,” he said, low, “I would dare much more than that.”

More murmurs of approval, even a few sentimental sighs, swept through the Hall. Regat surveyed the crowd gravely and spoke slowly, as though she would rather do anything else. “Even so, my daughter has chosen you in vain.”

Angharad burst out then, crying, “No!” and he saw that Eilwen had been holding her back by the shoulders, but she broke free and actually stepped away, down from her throne and turned to face Regat. “Any other choice would be vain,” she gasped, throwing her arms out wide, as though she would address the crowds, the throne, the gods themselves. “From whence come our powers? What is magic, but an inherited trait, bestowed for nothing but chance upon the unworthy and worthy alike? These two were born with their abilities, and have used them for nothing but vanity and selfish gain.” She dismissed Gildas and Grimgower with a wave of her hand, then motioned toward Geraint. “Yet this man Geraint has earned his skills, and amazed us all, with tales we ourselves had forgotten. He has enspelled and bewitched this entire room with the magic of his words alone. And you would call this false?” She turned to look at him, her eyes full, and held out her hand to him.

“He is,” she said, “the only true enchanter.”

Geraint took her hand and clasped it, his heart in pieces. He knew that look, that tone, the quiet authority, and knew, somehow, that it could command thousands.

And knew, also, that here...it was not enough.


	35. Chapter 35

_I feel so much_

_that it is hard_

_for me at times_

_to feel anything_

_at all._

~Mary Kate Teske

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Five

Joy and sadness. Darkness and light. Angharad knew that paradox well enough. She lived it daily, and never more than now.

She had not believed her eyes when first she had opened them to see Geraint standing there; could not comprehend, for a heartbeat, what he was — vision, apparition, miracle, or some fever dream, popping up in the most inopportune moment possible. In seconds her scrambling thoughts had registered the reality of him, and the wild joy and relief of knowing he was _alive_ and _free_ had nearly catapulted her off her seat to rush to him. It was Eilwen’s touch at her shoulder that checked her, a warning nudge, and just as swiftly as it had risen, her ecstasy was engulfed in horror. Alive and free for how long, now that he was here? Here, before the queen _,_ where she had _ordered him not to come?_

Terrified lest she had already given him away by her own reaction, she had forced down the inclination to burst into hysterical tears of relief and joy and fear....gods, couldn’t she just _once_ enjoy the experience of pure gladness? Must it always be tempered by something else? Even giving vent to uncomplicated grief might be a relief, for that matter...just...would she _never_ cease to feel torn in endless different directions?How much more of her was there to break apart?

She had trembled, and the world had tilted sideways, blackness threatening at the edges of her vision. Eilwen had laid a hand on her again, whispered something, and she breathed deep until the darkness passed. She had felt the hush of the crowd, the focus of their attention, and knew everyone awaited her word, but she could not speak. The burning suspicion of Regat’s stare flickered from Geraint’s face to her own; Angharad felt it, a terrifying certainty. Her mother knew her well enough, and was no fool; Regat would guess, would know, and there was no escaping it...

But the queen would not make a scene here, before the entire court. So long as the ceremony went on, Geraint was safe, and after that, perhaps...perhaps...no, she would not think of after that; this moment alone was difficult enough to contain. And so Angharad devoured him with her eyes, drinking in the sight of him; his face was full of import, and she knew he had a reason for coming. Whatever he had to tell her, he would get his chance to tell it. That much, she could grant him, and when she rallied to speak to him, his words, as always, filled her with gladness in spite of herself.

She had seen his nervousness as he stood there; he had seemed, for a moment, smaller than he should, here in the crowds and hush and the dark vastness of the Hall, when she knew him as he looked standing tall and vibrant against a backdrop of sea and salt-grass, with wind in his hair and his eyes reflecting sky.But he changed; she saw it, knew the spine-tingling moment he forgot Self and became Storyteller. The familiar light in his eye, the power of his stance, the fire of his energy as he spoke, and his commanding gestures captured every eye in the room and held them at his pleasure. Her delight in him, her gladness that, at last, all could see his gifting for themselves and know the wonder that composed his very being, made her breathless.

And his story.. _.his story was magic_ , would have been magic enough even without the illusions that accompanied it, superfluous among the flow of his words, the spell of his voice. His listeners were as bound as if tied to the floor, every breath held and heart racing in rhythm with the cadence he set. The whole room swayed when he did, turned their heads to look anywhere he gestured, as though the visions he saw would also be visible to them. His deft sleight-of-hand seemed enhanced, somehow, so flawless in execution that even she, intimately acquainted with every one of his skills by now, gasped and cried out in wonder with the rest of the Hall, _believing_ for that instant, heart and eyes in agreement.

So engrossed she was in the flow of the story that she nearly missed its import, until the words _Dagrau Rhiannon_ beat themselves upon her mind. Eilwen’s hand tightened at her shoulder, and the fluid darkness within her swelled and warmed in a flood of communion. Her pulse quickened and her mind raced, seeking to fit the pieces together.

There _were_ three gems, as they had suspected: one upon her pendant, given by the Fair Folk…a token of goodwill, to heal the breach; no doubt Eiddileg had thought they would remember the first time it had been gifted to him, and see the generosity offered in the mirror of his return of it.

One in the king’s crown, still buried at Pentre Gwyllion, presumably - the power her grandfather had sought, and now, likely, that which Arawn coveted. A prickle of fear touched her at this realization; she glanced at Grimgower, watching and listening like the rest; thought of Achren, secreted in her apartment. Perhaps there was a reason this story had been forgotten. Perhaps they had been meant to forget.

And one more, kept by… Angharad caught her breath, thinking back, to the vision in the scry: a silver-haired woman, ageless, gowned in shifting light, a shining star in her hand as she gazed out to sea.

Not Achren.

_Rhiannon._

The goddess had not forgotten them.

When the story was ended, amidst the crowd in the Hall shouting approval, Angharad wanted to leap from her throne, desiring both to run to Geraint and to turn to her aunt and sister and embrace them in the fierce joy of finally understanding, to revel with them in the flood of peace and hope and life that broke upon her with such power that she could not stop the tears that streamed from her eyes. But she could only gaze upon him, loving him with every breath; she reached up, clutched her sister’s hand at her shoulder and held it fast, felt the warmth of Arianrod’s presence nearby, and wished, with all her might, that she felt the same from her own mother.

The queen had watched and listened as intently as all the rest, and could not have failed to make the same deduction about what still lay beneath Pentre Gwyllion, at the very least. It was not the primary concern at the moment, however, no matter its significance; Geraint was waiting for a verdict, and his rivals were protesting, and Angharad listened in dread as he pronounced his own doom by answering Regat’s questions with the truth.

Angharad knew she could have expected no more, nor less, from him. But her heart shattered, nonetheless. It was hopeless, futile, utterly wasted, but she rose from her throne, and defended him anyway, clinging to the surprising reluctance she sensed from her mother, some spark of the queen’s grudging respect despite, doubtless, being perfectly aware of who he was. A true enchanter, Angharad called him, and knew, from the depths of her spirit, that she spoke truth, a truth more solid and real than law or tradition.

She clasped the hand of her love and threw her head back in defiance of her mother, who looked upon them both in a frozen moment of impossible choice. The whole world trembled upon a precipice.

And then it tumbled.

“Angharad,” Regat sighed, “it is forbidden.”

The princess stood, in an agony of numb horror, did not hear the dismayed clamor of the crowd over the furious, anguished cry of her own heart that filled her up. It did not reach her lips, for she had no breath to give it voice; it beat against the cage of her ribs, drowned out the conscious thought of her mind, until she was nothing but a silent scream, a door shut against all other voices. Motionless, she stood, as Geraint’s hand was torn from her grasp and he was led away by guards, his eyes holding hers until his face was lost in the crowd; wordless, she made no answer to her mother’s demand to choose from the remaining enchanters. She refused to look at them again, though they jostled themselves in front of her, vying for her attention, and finally the queen stood, in a desperate bid for control, and announced that the decision would be made by the morrow, and bid the assembly to disperse.

The confusion that followed, Angharad did not remember. The darkness in her mind expanded, covering her in blessed nothingness, until she came to herself and knew, by the feel, she was in her own room, lying on her couch, but with no notion of how she had come there. She was cradled in her sister’s embrace, and around her, voices spoke, in fervent debate.

“…don’t know what sort of spell it was,” Elen’s voice broke into her consciousness, “so there’s no way to re-create it, is there? and no way for any of you to know what it would do now, even if you did.”

“What difference does it make, anyway, if we still can’t get to all the gems?”Eilwen broke in impatiently. “We know what Arawn is after, now, at least. I should think we ought to let the thing stay where it is, and concentrate on keeping him away from it.”

“It is not enough,” Arianrhod said. “Regat will not be content to let it lie. And I am not certain, myself…though probably not for the same reasons.”

Angharad heard the furl of pages turning, dusty, smelling of magic. The spellbook.

“Do you think she realized that the third gem is the one on the pendant?” Eilwen murmured.

“I do not know. It was wise of him not to reveal it there — _Llyr,_ too clever by half. But she may yet get it out of him.”

“Where’d she take him? — Aunt, you don’t think she’s going to—,”

Angharad stirred and whimpered, and they all fell silent. Eilwen jiggled her gently and kissed her cheek. “Wake up, love. You’re all right.”

The princess opened her eyes, sat up slowly, examining herself in a daze, sensing something unfamiliar. Frowning, she raised her hand, staring at her own clenched fist in confusion, and opened it slowly to reveal a silver chain entangling her fingers.

The crescent moon pendant dropped from her grasp, the gem held between its horns sparking ice and fire as it fell.

* * *

The queen of Llyr paused before the door of the council chamber, beset by a sense of uncertainty rare to her. Moments in which she truly did not know her next move were blessedly few. But now…

“Did he come quietly?” she asked the guard standing near.

“He made no protest, Majesty.”

She nodded, and he opened the door, seeing her through and retreating at her command, leaving her alone with the man who had brought them to ruin.

He had leapt to his feet when she entered, and she resisted an urge to be outraged that he had dared to sit at all; after all, it was she who had ordered him brought here and not thrown straight into the dungeons, on an impulse she had not yet examined closely.

Regat regarded him with practiced impassivity, though never in her life had her expression been more at war with her thoughts.

He bowed to her and then stood, head low and eyes averted, in an attitude of expectant resignation, his hands clasped behind him. His cloak lay folded on the council table next to a leather satchel; the rest of his attire was as plain and rough as she had expected, but no longer did she make any assumptions based upon it, or anything else about his appearance. Though his sun-browned skin and strong build spoke of a living earned outdoors and by his hands, he was, manifestly, no common laborer, and she remembered Angharad’s outraged defense of him with a sensation somewhat akin to relief to find it true.

She suspected it was not the first time he had stood before a monarch. He waited, in silence, with no nervous shifting of balance, stammering, or fidgeting. No, this man was not common, in any sense of the word.

“Well, Geraint of Gellau,” she said at last, “…and is that truly your name?”

His eyes did not move; she thought he must have picked out a spot on the floor at which to stare. “It is, Your Majesty,” he answered, low and calm. “Everything I spoke was the truth.”

“Yes,” she acknowledged, and did not conceal the quiet, unexpected bitterness in her voice. “I could almost wish you had lied.”

His gaze moved then, in a surprised jerk, and he nearly looked at her, but checked himself in time. Regat frowned to herself; the formality was a barrier, and it was no time for niceties. She stepped around him, slow and deliberate, and spoke as if to the surrounding walls. “I would that the father of the next Princess of Llyr should look me in the face.”

The pause grew a touch long before he replied, in a voice that sounded strained. “No doubt it will be a great privilege for that man to do so, Majesty.”

“Indeed,” she said coolly. He was diplomatic; that she would grant him. “Then do it.”

She watched the golden lines of his neck move as he swallowed. “I…I do not…unders—,”

“Do you not?”

She had moved behind him now, observing the tension in every line of his posture; the veins in his clasped hands and forearms stood out in branching lines, and his chest expanded in a breath that shuddered out of him. Finally his head lifted and turned, and his eyes rose, wary, and wide in disbelief, to meet hers. The blue haze of sea and sky shone in them, all the more brilliant for the flush in his sun-kissed face. His cloud of tousled curls, the color of ripe barley, floated around his face like a halo. _Llyr._ If a golden son of Belin himself should walk into the room, she could hardly have known the difference. No wonder Angharad…

 _Damnation._ “Angharad carries your child,” she said bluntly, “a full month on.” His lips parted in a heavy breath, and in the open book of his face she saw many things…shock, dismay, fear…yet also, beneath it, a glimmer of tremulous joy, and it was this that made her turn away from him.“It has put her, and all of us, in even greater danger than we already were. You see why I cannot allow her to stay unwed. She was resigned, today, to do what she must. Until you arrived.”

He stood silent, and Regat let the silence play out long, angry with herself for not knowing what to do with him, angry with him, for just…being. “Do you take me for a fool?” she demanded, turning back to glare him down.

The blue gaze faltered a little, but his voice stayed low, controlled. “I know that you are not, Majesty.”

“Yet you played me for one,” she accused, “today, and long before today, you and my daughter.”

“It was never our intention,” he protested, in a gasp, his composure breaking at last, and he halted, collecting himself. “I did not come here today to make a mockery of you or your laws,” he said, meeting her eyes again, and she read the sincerity in his face. “I knew I had no hope of deceiving true magicians, nor of rising so far above my station as to win the hand of the Princess. I came to keep my promise to Angharad, to fulfill the charge she had laid upon me. Presenting myself as a suitor was the only ploy I could think of that would grant me a last audience with her, that I might tell her what I had learned.”

What he had learned. Regat sank into the chair at the head of the table, mulling over what she had seen and heard in the Hall, reluctant curiosity warring with a warning alarm within her heart. A hundred thoughts pressed upon her, voices in her mind that jostled each other for her attention. “That tale of yours,” she said slowly, “was a pretty cobweb, spun by a master hand. An impressive performance.”

“It was no mere performance,” he answered, bristling a little, “but the history of your people, forgotten by them, but not by the spirits of the sentinels that still guard the body of your ancestor. It was they who gave it me, while I walked among the sacred stones, not three days ago.”

A tremor ran through her, a dread disbelief. “The gwyllion?” she whispered, and her hand tightened into a fist upon the table. “How? They give nothing to anyone, not even…”

Regat cut herself off, angry and dismayed at her own weak display. He was looking at her as though he knew far too much, an expression of painful understanding, compassion, even pity. She would not be pitied by _him,_ this powerless man, nay, barely more than a boy. How had _he_ survived the gwyllion unscathed, where others far worthier…

She caught her breath, her heart pounding. “How dare you breach our agreement with them and put us all in peril of their wrath?”

“Your treaty with them forbids only the people of Llyr to enter their domain,” he answered, taking an entreating step forward before remembering himself, and halting, his hands raised to her in supplication. “Angharad and I discovered it together. She had told me of the suspicion of an unknown power on the island, and certain of her visions led her to believe it to be connected to Pentre Gwyllion. We knew it was forbidden for her to go there, so she sent me, to learn what I could. They were not…an easy audience,” he added, with a rueful twitch of his mouth. “Indeed, they give nothing for nothing, and in the end I was obliged to strike a bargain with them that cost me much. But such it was my honor and my privilege to do, for the sake of the people of Llyr that I have come to love, and for the sake of Angharad…” his voice broke, and his jaw tightened; he swallowed hard and finished, low and rough, “…for whom I would give my life.”

“That is well,” Regat said drily, “for the penalty for a common man who dares touch a Daughter of Llyras you have is death.” He flinched, but it was subtle, a mere moment’s reflex, before he straightened his shoulders and gazed at her in silence, waiting, and she ignored a twinge of resentment that he made no plea. But she had never been one to torment anyone needlessly. “Fear not,” she told him, “I am not so cruel as that, despite what you may have been told. It is my duty to enforce our law, yet also may I pardon anyone I choose.”

She paused, bitterly aware of the poetic justice that she, forced to banish her own father because eldritch creatures without pity demanded adherence to the slightest trivialities, should show mercy to a man who had outwitted those same foes. “Whatever guilt is upon you is not entirely of your own making, and certainly my daughter has been neither dupe nor unwilling victim. I do not yet know what to do with you, Geraint of Gellau, but your life is safe from our executioner, at least.”

His shoulders slumped a little, and he bowed his thanks silently. “Yet what does this benefit us?”she asked — speaking more, almost, to herself than him. “Though every word of your tale be true, we are entangled in that which will require more than legend to unravel.Angharad seems to have informed you of things far beyond the bounds of prudence. I presume you know something of our struggles.”

He spoke haltingly. “Yes, Your Majesty. I know that Arawn seeks a hidden power here, and I know also whom you have employed to aid you against him.”

Was there nothing the girl had not told him? So much for for obedience, for respect for her authority, for the importance of secrecy! Had she ever had control over her own household, or had it all been false — as ephemeral as this man’s illusions? Regat took a deep breath to keep from setting something aflame; she nodded instead, a short acknowledgement of the truth, and tapped at the table, mentally turned over all she knew: the scrawling on her father’s parchment, the legends, the hints.

“ _Dagrau Rhiannon,”_ she said slowly, “is a name I knew, but thought to be myth. I think you did not speak the whole truth. Tell me the end of your story again.”

His blue gaze faltered and broke, and he glanced away, as though uncertain. “Indeed, Your Majesty, you discern well. One line alone in all my tale was a half-truth, for it seemed unwise to reveal too much, in the company of...certain of those present.”

She stared at him, not knowing whether to laugh at or curse the irony of how perfectly suited a match for Angharad he should have been. For he was correct, of course - evidence of a discerning political mind. Along with being intelligent, brave, and well-spoken; every thought and manner, so far, marked him as worthy of the position for which he had applied, far more worthy than either of the other two disappointments...except in power.

And it was power that they needed, more than anything.

“A gem still lies in the king’s tomb at Pentre Gwyllion,” she said, a guess she did not need him to confirm, but he nodded.

“But I must warn Your Majesty,” he added, blunt, “They were adamant that any attempt to take it, while they still stand guard, would be treated as theft.”

Regat frowned, annoyed at the implication that she needed to be told this. Yet the gem was, doubtless, the thing their enemy desired, and a power that must be kept from the wrong hands could only be truly safe in the right ones. Moreover, now that Achren had bound them, it was even more imperative that they use everything at their disposal. There could be no question that it was powerful, and if its secrets could be discovered, used to do more than simply guard from invasion...

Something worried at her mind, like an itch, and she turned to it. What of the third jewel? The gift to Eiddileg? Was it…could it possibly be—

Suddenly there was a frantic thump and scuffle at the door, and the muffled protest of the guard standing outside it was shouted down by a commanding chorus of women’s voices. The door burst open, and Angharad tumbled through it like a bolt of lightning. With a strangled cry she flew across the room and fell into Geraint’s arms.

Regat sprang up, but quickly masked her startled dismay.Arianrhod and Eilwen had entered the room on Angharad’s heels, but they stood back, now, unwilling to intrude on what both considered a sacred moment. Perhaps they were right, the queen thought, as with a crushing sense of dread and grief she watched her daughter sob into Geraint’s neck; he was crooning to her, in incoherent murmurs, in fervent whispers, his lips near her ear.

 _Belin_ , not again. Regat turned away from the sight, silently cursing fate. She had no wish to separate them. It had been torment to speak her verdict in the Hall, to watch her words tear hearts and betray the trust of her own flesh and blood — a cruel enough destiny once, let alone twice in her life. But what were any of their choices? Love and legend would not save this island; power alone could do it, and _by the gods_ she would do what she had to do — as she had always done.

She opened her mouth to order them apart, but the words never came. A crash shook the floor, vibrating beneath their feet. Once, it struck, then twice, the sharp crack shivering into a rumble as the ground quaked; there were screams in the distance, and the hot, metallic taste of foreign magic poured through the air in a flood. Eilwen and Arianrhod both cried out in horror. Angharad froze, looking toward the door.

It burst open again, and the guard fell into the room, his face white as death. “Majesty,” he gasped, “we are—,” but before he could hit the floor, the queen was already sweeping past him, catching up her long skirts over one arm to run toward the Hall, the surge of magic pulling her to its source like a whirlpool, sucking all around it into darkness.


	36. Chapter 36

_oh, but sweetheart, I am a goddess,_

_my blood is made of stardust,_

_and my heart of burning flames…._

_you thought you could lock me in_

_your grasp,_

_but my sword is sharp,_

_and your grip loose,_

_and this I how I become the queen._

_~k.s._

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Six

Angharad stood frozen at the door of the Great Hall, unable to believe in what she saw.

Bodies were strewn upon the floor, courtiers and half-a-dozen armored guards, like so many finely-dressed dolls carelessly dropped by a child called away to other pursuits. Among them lay the jeweled forms of Gildas and his attendants. From without the grand entrance came the sound of beating upon the doors, but they were barred, and before them, quivering like delirium, stood one of the nightmare-creatures of Grimgower’s creation, its leathery wings spread out, barring any further exit or entrance from that direction.

But it was not at the death around them that she and her family stared, after their initial moment of horrified comprehension. Their focus was bent upon the dais, where Grimgower himself sat upon the throne, his gaunt face suffused, his golden eyes gleaming with a wild light of triumph. At his right, hovering like a black bird of prey, stood Achren.

“Ah.” The dark enchanter raised an imperious hand, as if to beckon them all in. “My bride approaches. Welcome, Daughters of Llyr, to my new—,”

What else he meant to say they never knew. Even as he spoke, Regat strode into the Hall. Stepping over a prone body on the floor, her crimson gown streaming behind her like a river of fire, she raised her arms, calling out words Angharad had never heard. A sudden flash filled the entire room with blinding light; there was a crash, and Grimgower, engulfed in blue flame, crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut, tumbling to the foot of the dais. The monstrous apparition at the door gave a single unearthly shriek and dissolved into nothing. Geraint, who had followed upon the women’s heels, gripped Angharad by the shoulders and cried out in shock; she instinctively spread her arms wide, shielding him, her mind blank with horror.

Achren made no movement of either surprise or dismay; she looked down at the dead body of the enchanter and raised one dark brow in eloquent disdain. “Efficiently done,” she declared, “and certainly not what he expected.”

“What is this treachery?” Regat thundered, stepping toward her. The air crackled with residual magic, sparking, ready to break out once more, but Achren raised a white hand.

“It is not what it appears,” she said. “He was a tool of Arawn, come to insinuate himself into your court. I sensed it today, during the presentation, but could get no word to you.”

They all gasped, and Eilwen clutched Angharad’s hand. Regat regarded Achren suspiciously. “Sensed it how?”

“I know the taste of his magic well enough,” Achren answered, stepping down from the dais, “even from my chambers. The spell that killed those assembled here was one of Arawn’s. Your guards also lie dead or senseless, all throughout the castle, thanks to his creatures. But this fool would not have been capable of so much, without help.” She spurned the man aside with her foot as she passed, and surveyed the rest of those gathered, her icy eyes glittering. “I regret that I could not stop him from what he wrought here,” she said flatly, “Without any of you near, I could work no magic to prevent it. But he was vain, and easily tempted, and I made him believe I had come to assist him.” Her lip curled scornfully. “He was eager to proclaim his triumph to any who would listen, intending to hold you all hostage in the Hall until the princess agreed to his suit. No subtlety at all. He underestimated you, but.…he had his uses.”

Her gaze rested upon Geraint, openly keen. “He told me a most…interesting tale, before you arrived.”

Angharad moved in front of him, intercepting Achren’s line of sight, terror flooding her to the fingertips, filling her with certainty: Achren _lied._ “Whatever he told you,” she said, in a desperate growl, “was no concern of yours.” She turned to Regat in appeal, trembling. “Mother, please. Grimgower may have been _her_ tool, as much as Arawn’s, and think on how long he has been here, how much trouble he might have caused in that time, unbeknownst to us. Have we not had enough of these secrets? Of dealing in dark magic? Is it not past time to send her away?”

Regat took a breath, but it was Achren’s voice, rising in a wave of cold laughter, that answered, cutting off the queen. “Clever child,” she said, “you cannot send me away, not if you wish to keep your land safe. Look what has been done here already, because I could not warn you in time.” She motioned around to the dead strewn about, and then indicated Geraint with a wave of her arm. “But now, thanks to this charming creature and his fantastic tale, you know what Arawn wants. He will not rest until he has it.”

“Destroying the island will not help him acquire it,” Arianrhod said, clear and quiet. Achren glanced at her scornfully.

“So I understand,” she said, “and so must he, by now — I assure you he will have had ways of communicating with his spy.” She motioned dismissively to the dead Grimgower.“So he will try other ways. Without me here to recognize him, to reveal his manipulation when it occurs, how will you know? Of course, you do have another choice — to use this thing for yourselves. If it protects the island from invasion simply by existing, think what it could do in your hands.”

“In _your_ hands, you mean,” Eilwen spat, and Achren’s face twitched.

“My hands are tied still,” she pointed out. “Have I not kept your mother’s terms? Send me away at your peril, for if I go, I take my protection with me, along with what I know - information that others might find excessively interesting. And should I meet my doom elsewhere, your land will suffer in kind.”

“That is an intolerable connection,” Regat declared, “and well you know it; too high a price for your assistance, which we no longer require.” Her dark eyes flashed dangerously. “Break it.”

Achren’s crimson lips parted in a triumphant snarl. “In exchange for what?”

“Mother,” Angharad gasped. Regat turned and looked at her, and in her mother’s face she read utter despair. They were hemmed in, hands tied, every possible escape route broken and blocked. To give Achren what she wanted would mean death for untold thousands; to fight her would bring destruction to the island.

“What you want is impossible, Achren,” Arianrhod broke in, a last attempt. “The power you seek, we cannot access. It is forbidden, protected by an alliance with creatures more powerful than any of us.”

“You mistake me,” Achren retorted. “I have no interest in these jewels.” She swept past the High Priestess without deigning to look at her. “Your goddess abandoned and then spurned me long ago. She cared nothing for my tears. What are hers to me? I need no such trinkets, when I already have a treasure here, far beyond their worth.” With the dangerous grace of a predatory animal, she stalked toward and stood before Angharad, her blue eyes hard as stone. “And I _will_ protect it — from Arawn, and all others.”

Angharad stumbled back, panicked, until she collided with Geraint, standing behind her. His chest was warm at her back and his arms went around her instantly, protective, but she felt no comfort, only a nauseous certainty. Achren _knew._

_She knew._

In a flash of fluttering robes, a silken sweep of black hair, Eilwen darted between them, shielding her sister. She hissed out a curse, impulsive and poorly-aimed; it crackled on the air and Achren, though taken by surprise, deflected it, unharmed. But the moment she raised her arms there was a loud crack, a movement in the ground beneath them, and the floor trembled. The pounding at the doors of the Hall halted, replaced by cries of fear, panicked shouts, loud crashes and crumbling.

Regat, broken from her paralyzing despair, swept between her daughters and Achren in a crimson fury. And then the room was filled with shouted words, waves of magic that singed and flooded its way through earth and stone and air to collide and clash in their midst. Shattered timbers and masonry, caught in the side effects, crashed to the floor. Scarlet streaked in the swirl of robes, in the flash of flame, in a slashing spill of blood from somewhere, and the screams from without were drowned out in the tumult from within. Angharad stood rooted to the spot; she felt the gathering force of water, pressing in, seeking its target, and realized why, all at once: Achren had broken the terms of her agreement, and now the sea, from leagues away, sought her with all its pounding fury. It was driving against the channels beneath the earth, the weaknesses that were already present, and the fissures would not last long against its inexorable strength.

Eilwen suddenly plowed into her, breaking her concentration. Her sister, white-faced and wild-eyed, pushed her frantically backward toward the rear door of the Hall. “Get out of here, you idiots,” she rasped, “run. It’s you she wants. Wait, take this.” She pushed the spell book into Angharad’s arms. “keep it safe. We’ll hold her off.”

Angharad gripped the book in one hand and grappled with her. “Run where? I don’t know what to—,”

“I don’t either,” Eilwen cried, her voice breaking in a desperate sob, “but you’ve got to go. We’ll find you later, after…I don’t… _Llyr, just go!”_

She shook off Angharad’s clinging, grabbed Geraint by the shoulders and shoved him after her, and turnedback into the chaos of smoke and fire and magic.

Angharad stood in an agony of indecision, but Geraint took her wrist and pulled her through the door and into the hallway. “Come,” he urged, “how do we get out?”

“I cannot leave them,” she gasped, “I’ve got to help.”

He pushed her back against the wall, forced her to look at him. “What can you do here,” he asked, “that they are not doing already?”

She sobbed, trembled, tried to think, but the noise from the Hall, the magic overwhelming all her senses, drowned everything. She was drowning, drowning in all of it; _drowning…_ as they all would, soon _._ “I’ve got to stop the sea,” she burst out. “It’s coming for Achren, and it will take all of us with it.”

He released her in dismay, stammering, “It’s coming…how?”

“There’s no time,” she cried, “come.” And she grabbed his hand, and pulled him down the corridor, plunging ahead, down stairways, through courtyards. The grounds were teeming with people, their arms full of snatched possessions, fighting their way through the gates, trying to escape the crumbling stone of the castle walls as the earth continued to rumble and crack beneath their feet. The gates were blocked by their struggling mass; Angharad took one look and ran back, yanking Geraint along with her, sobbing as she shut her ears to the cries of those who recognized her, called to her, begging for help. Back, and down, through narrow passages and dark tunnels; she pulled out the Pelydryn and the light blazed, fighting back the blackness; in its light she could think more clearly. The secret gate opened to her hand, and they were under the wall, and out, beyond the castle, the open moor spread before them, and the dark line of sea lay flat on the horizon.

She stopped there, and Geraint stood with her, as she shut her eyes and reached out with magic; felt the water pulsing and pounding beneath the surface, the pull of her mother’s spell drawing it in, angry, merciless, singular of purpose. It roared in triumph as a bit of earth crumbled away - from its assault, or because Achren was injured? There was no knowing.

“I don’t know if I can stop it,” she gasped out. “Not alone.”

Geraint, behind her, reached for her hands, crossed their entwined arms over her chest and held her up. “You are not alone,” he whispered.

 _Not alone._ The warm and fluid darkness within her stirred and swelled again, and she stilled, allowed it to envelop her, and him, and the space around them, a darkness that was yet full of light, like a night sky full of stars. The two of them shone in it, in her mind’s eye, glowing in two bright points, and as she examined it in wonder she saw a third, sparking and growing brighter, until it flamed between them. The three of them shone, a triad of their own, in vivid and wondrous connection. The miracle of it flamed within her, and she gripped Geraint’s hands, filled suddenly with an incongruous and abandoned gladness. “ _We_ are not alone,” she corrected, and he tightened his arms.

“I know,” he said, his voice an undercurrent of pure joy. “Your mother told me.”

The tremble in her limbs turned to a solid surety, a peace and strength that flooded her whole being. It flowed out from her in waves, light upon light, until she knew nothing but its warm embrace, sweet and whole and loving and perfect, a magic more true and real than any spell ever written in the book now clutched against her chest. The pounding of the waves fell away before it. The sea calmed itself, its fury bound and harnessed, and she wove her own will into her mother’s enchantment, binding it; the water sought Achren still, but it would wait, patient, until she released it.

Geraint’s wordless exclamation near her ear brought her back to herself with a gasp, and Angharad opened her eyes to see what had startled him. She looked down. The ground, previously carpeted only in gray-green saltgrass, now bloomed in a profusion of silvery-white flowers, their blossoms bursting directly beneath her feet and spreading out in thick patch all around them.

“What on earth…” Geraint blurted out, and Angharad laughed.

“Moonflowers. The blessing of Rhiannon. She’s here.” She twisted around in his arms to face him, kissed him, finally, desperately, _at last_ …but of course, cut short, as the rumble of the ground beneath their feet brought her back to reality with a thud. _“Rhiannon,”_ she gasped, and the triad of stars in her mind blazed again, but this time arranged themselves into a symbol she knew, the thing that had called to them, spirals, connected. “I know what I must do,” she said aloud, in wonder, “but I’ve got to get the gem, the one at Pentre Gwyllion.”

“I thought you might,” Geraint said, pulling away from her to rummage within his satchel, “and I can tell you how.” He pulled out the last thing she expected: a battle horn, capped in silver, etched in strange designs. He held it up to his mouth and glanced at her, a little sheepishly. “I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen,” he confessed, “but it’s what they told me to do.”

He put the horn to his lips and blew, a series of notes that rang out, clear, musical, ethereal; they drifted across the hills in a commanding call. Angharad caught her breath as Geraint lowered the horn, felt a prickling sense of presence, the hair on her arms and the back of her neck rising. Geraint’s face changed, he was looking behind her, in wonder and trepidation. She whirled to follow his gaze, but saw nothing but the waving grasses and scattered stones that made up the familiar view. She glanced from it, back to him, and knew he saw something else. “Geraint. What is it?”

He looked at her in surprise. “You cannot see the door? But it’s…wait a minute.” He hung the horn at his hip, and took the spellbook from her, stowing it in his pack. Then he took her hand, and walked forward slowly, and the sensation grew, of an inhuman magic, of something watchful and wary; she clutched his arm and he drew her close. “It’s all right. They promised not to harm you.”

Suddenly the sky, the grass, and all else disappeared, and they were swallowed in darkness. Angharad gasped, but the Pelydryn knocked against her hip, and she pulled it out. The light flared, illuminated the ground before them, a tunnel of earth and stone, yawning ahead into darkness. She took Geraint’s hand, and together they hurried ahead. All around them, the ground continued to rumble, and pebbles rolled, clattering down the walls.

“I thought you stopped it,” Geraint panted, ducking beneath the low-jutting roof.

"I stopped the sea,” she explained “but this is something else. Achren bound herself to the earth, and every blow she takes effects the island. I suppose,” she said, shivering, as she pulled him forward, “we can assume that as long as it goes on, there’s still someone alive, fighting her.” She wanted to sob again at the thought, but there was no time; the tunnel went on and on, and then suddenly it opened before them and the light of the Pelydryn burst into a cavernous, round space, lined and roofed in stone. Flecks of crystal and mica bounced the light back in a glittering veil from every surface, dazzling their eyes. In the center of the space, a stone slab stood, high and forbidding, at the top of a tiered dais.

Angharad released her held breath in a rush of understanding. “Llyr,” she said, a low murmur. “Good _Llyr_.”

Geraint was staring up at the slab. “Is that…?”

“The king’s barrow,” she said. “Beneath the stones. How did we get here so quickly?”

He looked around uneasily. “Time works…oddly, somehow, with the Folk.”

She frowned, and muttered, “Fair Folk magic. How did you see the entrance when I could not?”

“I’ve seen things,” he said, “rather differently, since being with them.”

Angharad cast him one puzzled and curious look, but the ground rumbled around them, and she turned back toward the dais, looking up, entranced.

“The bones of Llyr enthroned,” she whispered, “in the stones of Llyr entombed…”

Around them, things writhed in the shadows, moving at the edge of her vision. A hiss as of many voices sounded in her ears. _Only the blood of Llyr,_ they said, _can for his shame atone._

Geraint tensed, and stepped in front of her protectively. “You gave me your word,” he called out to the shadows, “she must not be harmed.”

_This is no longer your story, Not of Llyr. She knows what she must do._

Angharad took a step forward, and the voices gibbered in anger. _Forbidden. It is forbidden. Release us, or release our wrath._

She stopped, confused, and glanced at Geraint. “I, er…I made an agreement with them,” he faltered. “It is the only way you can get to the gem. They wish for the treaty to be dissolved, to be released from their service here. You have that authority.”

Angharad considered this, in surprise, wondering about the implications. Their protection was a hindrance, and no longer necessary. But releasing these creatures, when she had no idea what they were capable of, or why they’d been imprisoned there to begin with…

There was a jerk in the stones around them, an ominous rumble, and the gwyllion moaned. _No time. No time. The island crumbles._ Angharad took a breath, resolute.

“Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg,” she called out, “you have kept our law, and served us well. The terms have been fulfilled. Go in peace, thank your king for his friendship, and tell him that Angharad of Llyr has released you.”

An earsplitting shriek of unearthly elation filled the cavern, deafening, and she and Geraint clutched each other, as all around them the air filled with invisible movement, as though a tempest were trapped underground, ripping at their clothes, their hair, pummeling them. And then the movement and noise ceased, and with it the sense of the gwyllion’s presence. A dead and complete silence fell, filled with the noise of the anxious and hollow breathing of the only two still standing there.

“I hope that wasn’t a mistake,” Angharad said dryly, her voice echoing off the stone walls.

“Sorry,” Geraint muttered, and she squeezed his hand and raised the Pelydryn high, stepping forward, the golden light brilliant around her.

She climbed the steps to the dais, Geraint behind her, and looked upon the slab surface, unsure of what she expected to see. Even bones would be gone after two centuries, assuming the sons of Llyr had left any of them to begin with, and Angharad saw, with relief, that the slab was bare; if there had been any debris, most of it had been swept away by the currents of the gwyllion’s departure. What dust was left was sunk into a series of grooves etched into the stone, and she examined them with swift understanding, her heart pounding. “Geraint,” she said, her voice shaking, “look.”

She blew into the grooves, clearing the rest of the dust away, and before their eyes the triple spiral appeared, carved smooth into the stone, its sinuous lines connecting and weaving together. In the center of the symbol, in the triangular space made up of the spirals’ joined lines, an iron knife lay as though placed there, waiting.

Nearby, upon the slab, sat a circular object, entwined lines of delicately forged metal, black and corroded with age. Angharad picked it up with trembling hands, holding her breath. A gem, identical to the one on her pendant, was set at its most intricate point. The light of the Pelydryn, fallen upon it, broke into fragments and scattered throughout the chamber, upon the walls, the roof, their faces.

 _“Blessed Rhiannon,”_ Angharad whispered. She pressed the golden sphere into Geraint’s hand suddenly, commanding, “Hold this,” and reached into the folds of fabric over her heart, drawing out her silver chain and pendant from the place she had secreted it. Two gems, one in each hand; she felt the pull between them like two lodestones, an attraction as though invisible cords passed one to the other, ready to be yanked taught.

Her hands moved as of themselves, following some inner guide. She laid the crescent pendant upon one spiral cut into the slab, the gem in the exact center of the whirl. Picking up the knife that lay there, she pried with it at the gem in the crown. The ancient metal crumbled and the jewel popped free; she set it upon a second spiral, next to its twin.

“Are you sure this is—,” Geraint began, but she shushed him, waiting; the pulse of magic welling up from the symbol, from the stone, from the ground and air around her was as welcoming and familiar as her own breath, like an embrace from the arms of a loved one. The gems flashed, glowing with their own milky light; the light flowed from them, filling the etched lines like liquid, traveling along the grooves until all their shallow channels glowed silver against the dark stone - all except for the third spiral.

Angharad picked up the knife again. Geraint’s gaze flickered to her in apprehension. “What are you going to do with that?”

She shook her head at him for silence, her heart racing; she did not know if she could speak words other than those that seemed to form themselves on her lips.

“ _The bones of Llyr, enthroned,_

_In the stones of Llyr, entombed...”_

A quick and efficient slice of the blade across her palm. Geraint cried out in alarm, and swiped the knife away from her, but it was done, and she had barely felt t. She held her fist above the symbol.

_“Only the blood of Llyr_

_Can for his shame atone.”_

Three scarlet drops fell upon the empty space nested within the spirals. She gasped for breath.

_“Cleave the tomb…”_

The light in the grooves swept forward, filling the empty spiral, and suddenly it flashed, and within it shone a third light, brilliant as a star, flaring until they could not look at it for its brightness. Angharad fell back and Geraint caught her, pulling her backward as the cavern shook around them. The stone roof shivered and cracked, and chunks of it fell into the space. Daylight poured through from above, and then with a roar the walls collapsed around them.

Geraint cried out, but Angharad threw out her arms upon instinct, and a shield of power sealed them in, pushing the crumbling earth out and around so that they stood untouched within the destruction. In moments the stone slab stood stark against the sky, surrounded by the twelve stones of Pentre Gwyllion, the light from the Dagrau Rhiannon shining white upon them.

Angharad shook herself gently from Geraint’s clinging grasp and moved to the dais again, climbed the steps, climbed all the way to the top of the slab, and stood within the center of the spirals, both knowing and not knowing why.

_“The fruitful womb…”_

She turned and fixed her eyes to the southern horizon, drawn by something stirring as deep as her heartbeat, as one with her as the new life that kindled and blazed within her body. The sea, the goddess, the womb, she herself…the distinctions did not matter. For now, they were all one and the same.

_“…Shall bring Llyr home.”_

The stone sentinels of Pentre Gwyllion shook, crumbled, and toppled like dying giants, crashing to the ground in a cacophony of thunder. And with a sound beyond hearing, a sense beyond feeling, a light beyond seeing, the earth and sea were moved aside.


	37. Chapter 37

_Have you forgotten who you are? Here is a reminder._

_You are the bearer of light, of life._

_Do you have any idea of your power?_

~Lang Leav

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Geraint, though master of words, for once, found them insufficient.

He tried to make sense of the sight before his eyes, but there were no names for the shapes and colors in it, no frame of reference for directions and perspectives that broke every natural law, and his overwhelmed senses reeled in bewilderment at what they could not define.

Angharad had spoken words that meant something, to her if not to him; she had stood upon the stone slab of her ancestor's barrow and been swallowed up in light. The light grew and engulfed the world around them, until they stood in the center of a circle of glowing mist, though whether it was under their feet or in front of them or directly overhead or all these directions at once, he could not tell; they seemed caught up in a place with no above or below, a place in which the very word "where" was meaningless.

There was a deafening noise in his ears as though he were held beneath a plunging waterfall, or in the trough between mighty waves of sea, and he looked about him and saw that the edges of the circle were water, rushing water, rising up on all sides, swirling around them in a spiral, a tunnel, stretching before them, a beckoning pathway that drew them with a strange and indefinable longing. He hung back in uncertainty. Angharad turned to him, face shining, and held out her hand. In the blazing light her hair and garments looked blinding white; they tossed and floated as though no force held anything down, but left all suspended, in air or water.

He was almost afraid to take her hand; she seemed so far away, so high above and beyond human that he thought she would dissolve if he touched her, melt away into the shining mist surrounding them. But he reached for her, taking a step…or at least, he moved forward; he could not say how. Instantly he stood upon solid ground, blinking, looking around himself in wonder at a landscape strange and alien, yet faintly reminiscent of something familiar.

The sky was the rich turquoise sheen of early morning, still speckled with stars, hung with a moon as bright and round as a giant pearl. Its milky light shone upon stone buildings, their delicate tracery and straight columns glowing white against the lavender shadows, obscured, in places, by climbing vines of the same silver-white flowers that had burst from the ground at Angharad's feet. The land sloped away from the structures in gentle hills, gleaming in the moonlight, broken by dark stands of trees, until a silvery expanse of sand separated it from the dark, shifting mass of sea, visible in the distance. From horizon to horizon it all lay silent, with the hushed air of an ancient place left empty, or perhaps asleep, awaiting the break of day with held breath.

Angharad stood next to him, and clutched his hand as they stared about them; she looked at him, speechless with amazement, then turned to look back and cried out in surprise. He followed her gaze, saw that the circle of light still blazed behind them, expanded, massive, enough to swallow the world — or perhaps this was a trick of the eye, as it seemed, no matter what its size, to block out everything else the moment he looked. From within it, figures were emerging, people one and two at a time, and then entire groups, families and clusters stumbling forward, blinking in confusion.

There were people of every possible description. Geraint saw the rich raiment of courtiers and the rough garb of farmers and fisherfolk, white-gowned girls and young women with their heads crowned in flowers; children tumbled in, shouting in excitement. Many had their arms full of possessions, and a few faces he recognized, from the chaotic courtyards of Caer Colur, from his friends at Abernant. The Tanner boys raced past without noticing him and disappeared over a hill; Mawrth and Nia followed them, their faces suffused in wonder. An entire flock of sheep stampeded by, parting around them, their bleating filling the air.

It seemed to go on and on, longer than it possibly could, as the light from the great gate grew and engulfed the entire space, until beyond the edges of the first view he could have sworn that the land itself changed and grew, that hills that had not been there before suddenly rose up against the horizon, vaguely familiar. And everywhere, now, the people of Llyr, uncounted and uncountable, were pouring further in. Silent no more, the landscape was of full of cries of joy, of welcome, of an inexplicable but uncontested recognition. To the left, the sky was turning pink, the horizon paling, the golden edge of the sun just curling over the lip of the sea.

"Angharad?" Geraint said dazedly, wondering if he were dreaming, or if perhaps he had hit his head when the stones had fallen. She turned to him, no longer shining like a goddess, but her face was flushed and glowing, solid and real and flesh-and-blood.

"They are home. _This_ is home," she murmured, as though she understood something for the first time, and then laughed at his bewilderment. "You ought to know. You're the one who told us." She threw her arms around him joyfully and he caught her up, still bewildered, but somehow knowing, believing, that all would be well, and right, and good, so long as she were next to him.

"But how are they all coming here, all at once?"he stammered. She looked around, bemused but happy.

"I don't know. Somehow it called us all, from everywhere on the island. Every single…" she broke off, and pulled away from him suddenly, looking anxiously and expectantly back to the light and mist behind them. In a moment she let out a glad cry; Elen had materialized next to them, looking disheveled and confused.

Angharad flung herself at her and the girl embraced her tearfully. "Oh, milady," she gasped, staring about them, "I don't…what's happening? There was so much noise, and the whole castle shaking. Guards lying dead all over and I couldn't find you anywhere. And then this light blinding everything until…" she stopped, looking confused. "Are we dead, too?"

Angharad burst into her silvery laugh and kissed her on both cheeks. "No, you darling. You've never been more alive. Go and look. Your family should be here, somewhere."

Elen looked cautiously hopeful as she took a few tentative steps away from them. "It's…" she hesitated, looking back at Geraint, "it's just like that story of yours. Isn't it? The gate opening and the kingdom walking through." For the first time, she smiled at him, at the two of them together, and turned to run, in toward the center, until she disappeared among the throng.

Angharad watched her until she was gone, her smile fading. She glanced around again anxiously, pulling at Geraint's arm. "Something's wrong," she said, "I don't see…"

He knew what she looked for. "Can we go back for them?"

"I don't know." She turned back toward the light, the circle-gate between the worlds. "I have to try."

"Not by yourself," Geraint said staunchly, taking her hand, but before they could take a step, the gate shimmered, and through it tumbled two figures, one supporting the other. Eilwen was nearly dragging a limping and bent Arianrhod over the ground toward them. Angharad cried out and ran to them just as Arianrhod sank to the grass, her face drawn and gray and full of anguish. But she held her arms out, and Angharad threw herself into them.

"Blessed Rhiannon," Eilwen gasped, "What did you do? Where are—?" She was looking around, like the rest, in wonder and awe. Her face was tear-streaked, her gown tattered, singed and blood-stained, hair in wild disarray. Angharad released her aunt to embrace her sister instead, and Eilwen returned her kisses distractedly, obviously still trying to make sense of her surroundings. Her gaze fell upon Geraint, eyes sparking recognition. "Well, there's a sight worth fighting for," she said, with a touch of her old humor, and seemed to come to herself, turning to Arianrhod. "Aunt, love, how bad is it?"

The High Priestess sat in the grass, surrounded by moonflowers; she looked exhausted, but some color had returned to her face. "I am not dead," she said, as though she were surprised by it, "nor do I think I will be so, any time soon." She was gazing at the land around them in a kind of quiet joy, and she turned and took Angharad's face in her hands, her blue-grey eyes shining. "Oh, love. You've done it. This.…this is…" her face changed, filling with peace and joy. "This is our country. Rhiannon is here; I feel her. She welcomes us. The people are safe."

"If they've all come through," Angharad answered, glancing around. The stream of the people of Llyr through the gate had slowed to a trickle. She frowned. "Where's Mother?"

Eilwen and Arianrhod exchanged dreadful glances. "Angharad, she couldn't…" Eilwen stammered, stumbling over her own breath. "She ordered us to go. I had to get our Aunt out. Achren…"

Angharad gasped, releasing them both. In the blink of an eye she rose, racing back toward the circle. The others screamed for her to stop, and Geraint, after a shocked moment of frozen comprehension, tore after her, reaching out and catching at her arm just as she was engulfed by light again.

* * *

She could go anywhere, in this space between spaces; a place of birth and re-birth, without limits or boundaries. And she wept when she stepped back out of its light, into the smoking ruins of the Great Hall, and saw the bodies of the dead lying among the debris, those who would never cross over, back to the home where Rhiannon had called them.

She would see it in nightmares, until her last breath: the body of her mother, at the foot of her throne, white-faced and empty-eyed amidst the spill of her vermillion robes, unmarked by any weapon, untouched by anything but a burst of lethal magic that had torn the spirit from its bounds.

And so also would she hear the scream of her sister, who had followed her, but could not step back through the gate, hear the shout, behind her, as she turned and saw Achren holding a helpless Geraint flat against a stone wall of the Hall with the brute force of her magic.

In the instant, Angharad understood. The gate was only meant to draw in one direction, but it was her blood that had opened it; she was the channel in which it flowed, and it bent to her will alone. Geraint had held onto her as she passed back through, and in her haste she had not even known; she had thought him safe on its other side, and now…

The foundations of her courage shattered into jagged fragments, dropping her heart into a bottomless dive. She sprang toward Geraint with a shriek, but Achren —haggard, bent nearly double, her robes in tatters and her face bruised and bleeding — Achren shouted out words that made him scream in agony, and Angharad knew no spells against this, could access no magic that would stop this force without harming him.

"Shut the gate," Achren hissed. "Break the spell or he dies." Eilwen, trapped within the light, shrieked out things that raked the space around her with fire, but nothing could reach them.

"You are done," Angharad gasped. "The sea can have you, and the island as well. It is already in pieces. My people are safe in the land of our ancestors, and you will die before you reach the shores of Prydain."

"I will take him with me, then." The white hand tensed in the air, and Geraint screamed again, and Angharad screamed with him, mind rent with his pain.

" _Stop it! Stop!"_

" _Shut the gate,"_ Achren commanded again, her eyes wild. "Shut it, from this side, and hold the sea back until I reach land. My life for his, Daughter of Llyr."

Angharad sobbed, knowing, without knowing how, that shutting the gate was an act of finality. The island was shaken from its foundations already, and the gate was suspended in its place by the force of the gems alone. Once she took them up there would be no more crossing over, from one side or the other.

Geraint, pressed against the wall, unable to move, held her with desperate eyes. She saw his lips form the word "no". He looked toward the circle of light and back at her, and she knew he was begging her to go back, to cross to the other side, safe from Achren. To leave him to his fate.

It was the only thing to do, the only thing that would render both sides safe. It was what her mother would have done.She crossed to the circle, the gateway between worlds.

Angharad stood within the light, and looked down at her feet. The _Dagrau_ _Rhiannon_ , secure in their spirals, pulsed around them, pulling at each other. She need only stand in the center and pick them up, join them together and take them with her. The three would be one at last, and all of Llyr's children would be safe in Rhiannon's country. She and her family; all the people that looked to her. Regat was dead and she was the queen, with the next heir already being knit within her.

She wondered, vaguely, what their Mona cousins would think. How they would explain what had happened to the High King, when they found Llyr gone and empty, except for the dead. She thought, a little wistfully, of Gwydion. She stood there, and looked out, and saw Geraint watching her, his eyes dull with pain, full of a grief too deep for tears, too vast to fill an ocean. Achren would kill him, or worse, the moment she was gone.

Angharad turned to Eilwen, immobile, a step away, an entire world away, hand outstretched across endlessness, tear-filled eyes pleading.

_How much more of her was there to break?_

_All of me_ , she thought. _I was always meant to be broken._

She kissed the air that touched her sister, bent down and swept her pendant up from the symbol, and stepped out of the gate.

The light collapsed behind her like an exploding star, a dying sun, and the force of it lifted them all off their feet, and Angharad landed hard amidst the shattered ruins of her fortress, and rolled without thought, only sensation, pain of body to dull and deflect the unimaginable things aiming at her heart. She picked herself up from the ground where she had tumbled, gathered up all the magic she could hold, broke the restraints from the spell she had woven into her mother's curse, and ran to Geraint's side. The sea burst from its boundaries, and once again attacked the land that bore the blood of its prey. The ground shuddered and lurched underfoot, and Achren shrieked in fury; she had fallen as well, weakened by her battle in the Hall, and was struggling to rise.

Geraint scrambled up as Angharad reached him, grabbing her by the arms. "You should have gone," he shouted, in a voice half-strangled by the grievous enormity of what he had seen, the impossible thing she had done. "Angharad, _why did you not go?_ "

She pulled him away, frantic, gasping. "I could not. I could not leave you to her." Another bit of wall toppled behind them with a thunderous crash and she pushed him toward the doors. "Come! There is no one left. We've got to get out."

Achren screamed after them, but Angharad did not hear, blocked her from her mind and ears and heart. Geraint followed her with much stumbling and cursing as they scrambled over fallen stones and lost their balance over the quaking ground. "Why is it all still shaking?" he shouted over the din.

She led him out through gaps in the walls, into the courtyard, ran toward the gates, panting. "I'm not sure. Too much at once, I think. Between mother's curse on Achren, and Achren's being wounded, and Arawn's weakening everything, and the power of the gate..." Angharad threw her hands up. "Maybe more that we don't even know. We've been held together by magic for ages, and now it's all falling apart."

They scrambled over the collapsed columns that held the iron gates, and Angharad stopped short, looking out in shock. The sea, normally a glistening line in the distance, now raged and crashed only a stone's throw away from the castle walls; the land beyond was swallowed up in its depths. She turned and looked around them; in every direction the landscape was altered; hilltops were islands, lowlands had disappeared beneath the roiling surf. Obvious wreckage of human habitation tumbled in the waves: snapped timbers, broken wagons, unidentifiable remnants of what once had been houses and possessions. "Great Belin," Geraint choked out.

Angharad fought down a sob. "They're…they're just things. The people are safe. They can start over."

"But my darling," he murmured, "your family..."

"Don't," she moaned, her hand to her mouth. "I cannot...cannot think of it now. I must..."

She felt the rocking pull of water, sucking at her will and mind, the unbelievable power and anger of the displaced sea as the land shattered, and remembered the night of Achren's spell, when they has turned the wave aside to stop it from wreaking destruction upon Mona. It was gathering now, in even greater fury, and there was no triad of enchantresses, no mother, no aunt, no sister to help; only she stood between the sea and all the other lands nearby. "I cannot do both," she moaned, "I cannot hold it back from here and there at the same time."

He could not have known what she meant, but Geraint pulled her to his strong arms and held her still. "Where do you need to be?"

Angharad wrapped her arms around him, thinking wearily that perhaps it would be easiest to let the sea take them both. Over and done, and back to her element, never parted again from him or anyone else, and the great empty void of loss that yawned like a dark canyon inside her would be gone. But something within her was stirring, and she examined it in surprise; the peaceful, fluid warmth swelled up in her again, calming, filling, pulling into her fingertips. So, then…Rhiannon had not left her.

Once again she turned her eyes inward, saw the three stars joined together: this new triad, blessed and sacred, herself and Geraint and the spark they had created, and she sank into the beauty of it, and took a deep breath.

"I need my feet on solid ground," she said.

He had raised the battle horn to his lips again, and blew the same clarion notes she had heard before. The moment she spoke, the ground around them fell away, plunging them into darkness.

She thought for a moment that she had lost consciousness, but the irony of the circumstance coupled with her last words almost made her laugh, and she was sure she could not laugh if she were unconscious. She realized, that, somehow, they were moving, moving quickly through dark spaces, possibly underground, and odd voices chattered around her in a language she did not know. Geraint's hand clasped hers on the right and she heard his familiar breath beside her; her left hand was clasped by something else, too small to be a hand but unmistakably one; also she heard, from somewhere behind them, shouts and scuffling as though someone was being dragged unwillingly along. She thought of the Pelydryn, but to pull it out would mean letting go of one or the other of the hands she held.

And then it was light again, and she found she was standing upon a low cliff that overlooked the sea, with the westering sun in her face, and the pull of her senses told her she was no longer on the island at all; it was there, west of them, and her feet stood upon the firm and sure rock of the mainland. Prydain. She was in Prydain, in the blink of an eye. And then Geraint was beside her, breathless, stumbling to a stop as though he had just been shoved. "By the tides," he spat out angrily, "they jerked me away so hard I dropped that horn. They don't do anything with subtlety, do they?"

Angharad reached for him. "They knew the urgency," she said, and pointed out toward the water. The sandy expanse below them was growing wider; the sea was drawing back, further than it should for low tide, back and back until fish were left gasping on the rocks, coral and anemone stranded in air. Far out, in the depths of the water, the wave was gathering, building, preparing to rush toward them like the surge of a thousand storms unleashed. " _Geraint_ ," she gasped, sensing it, "help me. Just hold me up. Stay, no matter what happens."

His arms went around her again, his chest solid against her back. His breath was warm on her cheek. _"Always."_

She sighed, and let herself sink against him, resting into the well of warm peace at the center of her being, reached out in her mind to the mass of liquid darkness to the west, into its pull, its flow, its currents, exultant in their crash and thunder. Eilwen's voice plucked at her memory. _You'll be a force beyond imagining, a manifestation of Rhiannon herself. You could pick up the island and move it a mile out to sea, or send a tidal wave to raze Annuvin to the ground._

Tears spilled at the thought of her sister, trickled down her cheek and into the corner of her mouth, spreading across her tongue. Salt water.

... _did you know, child, that salt water is your first home? Before you open your eyes into sunlight, before you take your first breath of this corrosive, burning air, you are formed in salt water and born from salt water. Many forget; men forget; but you, daughters of Llyr, daughters of Rhiannon, you remember…_

 _You feel the pull of the moon in the tides, in your bodies, as one, you sway under her power. You feel it in the embrace of water; the return to your home, to the spark of your creation. One with water, one with sea…_ _**you are the sea and it is you.** _

The swelling power spread around her again, as it had before on the island, waves of light and strength, magic unlimited and unimaginable. Love poured into her and back out in an eternal spiral, love for the man who stood with her, for their child, for her sister and aunt and friends and even for her love-starved, pitiable mother; her mother who had never known how to be loved, somehow. Love for her island that was no more, love that would lay it to rest; she calmed the roiling sea around it as a mother might soothe a fractious child by her touch alone, and felt the crumbling earth settle to the sea floor, quiet, silent, slow.

She was both moon and sea; she drifted upon the water and in the water, moving it as she moved her own limbs; both the command and the obedience. She gathered up its fury and released it somewhere outside herself, settled the waves back into their ebb and flow; she inhaled and exhaled the fluid breath of earth.

_Ebb and flow. Push and pull. Darkness and light. Waxing and waning. All things in balance._

There was a pounding flood of pressure, a rush of sensation, and she opened her eyes with a gasp as a blast of salt wind hit her face. For a moment she feared she had failed, but as she looked down she saw that the water beneath them had only returned to its bed. It thundered at the feet of the rocks in wild unbridled freedom, but thus far, and no farther. The wild rush, the wall of water would not come; it had dispersed, settled by her will. She had stopped it.

In exhaustion, she leaned into Geraint, secure in his arms. Her heart, finally free to give vent to feeling, broke at last. Turning, burying her head in his chest, she wept until her knees gave way, and he sank among the waving moonflowers at their feet and cradled her while she screamed out the loss of her family, her people, her home.

For long they knelt there, until she had cried away, in an agonized storm, all the strength she had left. She lay quiet in his arms, breathing in the perfume of the silver-white blossoms, and drifted, within the heart-space between sorrow and joy. _Sorrow and joy._ "All things in balance," she whispered.

Geraint's head was bowed over hers, and when she stirred he spoke, his voice bitter with self-condemnation. "I shall never forgive myself for being the reason you stayed."

Angharad sighed, and blinked back more tears. "I can think of no better reason. You followed me, so it was my fault for running back, when there was nothing I could do for my mother." She plucked a flower, and held it to her face. "On the other hand, the island was ending, one way or another, and there would have been no one here to stop the flood, if I had not stayed." She looked north, up the line of beach, to a cluster of cottages near the mouth of a stream. "Those would have been gone by now, along with anything else along the coast: villages, ports, ships, and everyone in them."

"Is the island completely gone?" he asked.

She shut her eyes again, reaching out, thoughtful, probing at the shape of the water. "There are parts left. Some of the highlands, I think. The land beneath Caer Colur still stands, but it's unstable. The water is at peace, which means..." she frowned. "Achren is either dead, or she's escaped, somehow."

"I don't think we should assume she's dead," Geraint muttered. "Stories like that never end well."

"No," Angharad sighed. "We should assume nothing."

She pulled the pendant from her pocket, watched the jewel glitter in the red-gold light of the sinking sun. "What's happened to the other gems?" Geraint asked, touching its edge.

She frowned. "I think…I'm not sure. I think they should both be on the other side."

"Couldn't someone there open the gate again, then?"

"Maybe." Her heart flickered with hope. "I suppose I'd better keep this close to hand, in case." She fastened the chain about her throat, and pulled off the unadorned pendant she wore. "Meanwhile, this one will have a new wearer soon."

He took it from her with a soft smile. "Shall I wear it until then? I rather liked bearing your symbol."

"You do anyway," she murmured, tracing the white scar at his breastbone.

They were silent, watched the sunset fire rest on the edge of the sea and spread along its surface like liquid gold. Gulls screamed past, moving black wedges against the crimson light. Angharad reached up, brushed Geraint's face, pulled a golden curl through her fingers. Her heart swelled. "I don't know what to do now," she murmured. "A queen with no kingdom."

Geraint entwined his fingers into hers, pressed her palm against his mouth. "Does one subject count?"

Angharad laughed faintly. "I suppose that counts, particularly when he serves in so many functions. Consort, scrivener, diplomatic ambassador to the Fair Folk. Official court enchanter. You said once," she added, "that you could make us disappear."

He rose to his feet, and pulled her up with him. She smiled through her tears at the sight of him, the sunset rays glowing in his curls, gilding his face, golden as summer. He took the moonflower from her hand, and wove its stem through the waves of her hair.

"Come, my love," he whispered. "Come away with me."


	38. Chapter 38

_To love you is not my promise,_

_it is my fate,_

_to burn until I can burn no more._

~Atticus

* * *

Epilogue

"Tell me a story, storyteller."

It is an order, if the lazy purr of a contented cat can be an order.

 _"Once,"_ he murmurs, smiling into the shadow behind her ear, _"an ordinary man loved a royal enchantress…"_

Fingers drift languidly through his hair. "And did she love him in return?"

"Certain circumstances allowed him to believe so."

Her throat trembles in a silent chuckle. "Then he cannot have been so very ordinary."

"Being no fool, he let _her_ believe whatever pleased her." Her skin burns around the smooth silver crescent against his lips; a strange mingling of sensation; hot as sunlight, cold as the sea. The sharp edge of the jewel catches and nicks the corner of his mouth. "She was—,"

"Wait," she interrupts, hand halting in its silky glide across his ribs. "Does this tale have a happy ending?"

He hesitates. Firelight quivers, broken, in her liquid gaze, a mirror of the storm in his soul. A glittering tear wanders down her cheek. He kisses it away, salt biting at his nicked lip. He welcomes the sting of salt to a wound now.

She tastes of it, always, and if he ever stops burning it will mean she is gone.

His hand traces the rounded curve of her belly, the promise of a future they can hold.

"Sometimes," he whispers, "I dare to believe it could."

* * *


	39. Related Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork I’ve done related to this fic - character portraits, costume design, ancillary stuff, possible graphic adaptation; if it’s visual it goes here.

  
  


Regat, sketch and color

  
daydreamy Angharad

  
Graphic-style character sketches. Angharad, Geraint, Eilwen, Elen, clockwise from the redhead, obviously. Her hair is a little too red here, though I still think it trends more red than gold, while Eilonwy’s is lighter. 

  
Angharad costume concept. Left is ceremonial garments, though I no longer like this headpiece/hair combo.   
Right is her long riding tunic, what she wore when she first laid eyes on Geraint, including the amused expression.


End file.
